Safe
by SgtMac
Summary: Post Miller's Daughter. Emma and Henry kidnap an enraged Regina and take her out of Storybrooke so that she can heal in a place without magic. SQ, semi-graphic (eventually).
1. Prologue

A/N: This is going to be a fairly long story about two damaged women healing from a lot of darkness and pain in their lives. It won't be an easy journey by any stretch of the imagination and there will be points that hurt terribly for both of them, but hopefully it will be one that brings them to a place of healing and love.

It will eventually be SQ romantic (down the line) but it is first and foremost about defeating the past, finding peace with the present and facing the future.

Timeline: Post Ep 16. Everything up until this point on the show is considered canon. Everything afterwards, might not be. Specific warnings will be supplied as needed in each individual chapter.

Thanks for the read! Enjoy!

* * *

It's Henry's idea.

"I think we need to get her away from here," he says almost casually as he drops himself down onto the stool in front of the breakfast bar. He's frowning in the kind of thoughtful way that only a child his age can pull off. He looks hopeful, excited and a little pensive all at the same time. His dark brow is furrowed and she can almost see the wheels moving inside his head, each turning rapidly to connect with the next in order to bring together whatever his plan is.

"Who?" Emma asks almost lazily as she casually leans across the counter towards him. She hides a yawn behind the back of her hand, remembering for a brief moment years of not having to wake up so damned early in the morning because the majority of her job had taken place in the night hours.

She wouldn't give up this – up Henry – for anything, but that doesn't mean she doesn't sometime miss the simplicity of days before Storybrooke. The lonely days before she'd been sheriff and mother and daughter.

She sighs to herself because sometimes what you think is comforting because it's all you know isn't really much at all once you know better.

"Regina," he answers almost curtly, and she finds herself shifting a bit anxiously at the not quite right first name use. He doesn't give her much time to think about this before adding, "We need to get here out of town."

"As in out of Storybrooke?" Emma presses, lifting an eyebrow.

She stands up straight and pushes an already poured bowl of cereal across the counter to him, then offers him a carton of milk as well. That she'd been quite proud of herself for not only making him a breakfast food instead of something like a Happy Meal but also having it ready for him in advance is something she keeps to herself. She's learning, she thinks.

A little bit more every day.

He shakes his head in the negative. "I like it dry," he tells her before reaching into the bowl in a way that she's certain that Regina never allowed, scooping up a handful and tossing it into his mouth. He crunches his way through a handful, and then nods and says, "And yes, out of Storybrooke."

"You're a weird kid," she chuckles before retrieving the carton and soaking her own Fruit Loops to the point where the colorful little rings are pretty much drowning in the low-fat milk. She stirs the cereal for a moment, takes an oversized bite, swallows it and then says, "Out of curiosity, what makes you think that she'd willingly go, well, anywhere with us? Me especially."

"She won't," he concedes between crunches. "So we have to kidnap her."

She coughs at this, just about spitting her entire mouthful of cereal and milk at him. Her eyebrows leap up into her hairline and her eyes widen almost comically. "I'm pretty sure I didn't hear that right because what I heard was you saying that you want to kidnap your already pissed off mother."

He nods his head sharply, even smiling as he does so. "You heard right."

"Right; of course I did. " She sighs dramatically. "Okay, you know what, kid? Because this isn't actually the craziest thing I've heard since moving here – though, I have to say, it's pretty damned close - I'll play along. What would be the point of us kidnapping Regina and dragging her out of town?"

"We get her away from the magic. She can't get better while it's around."

He says this so simply and so matter-of-factly, like it's the most obvious answer in the world, and for just a moment, she wonders if it is. But then she shakes her head, her blonde hair swinging out a bit. "Henry…"

"I know what happened," he tells her with more than a hint of impatience in his voice. He reminds her for a moment of his adopted mother – unable to humor fools for even a few seconds before snapping. "I heard you talking to David before he and Mary Margaret left. I heard what happened with Cora."

"You weren't supposed to."

"But I did. And I heard David tell you that he's afraid my mom will do something terrible in retal…retaili…you know what I mean."

"Retaliation," she offers, choosing not to comment on the fact that he's started addressing Regina as his mother again. Calling Regina by her given name is simply a defense mechanism for him. She nods her head as if to confirm his words. "Henry, your mom is angry right now. Really angry."

"I know. And really hurt, too. And when she's both of those, she does one of two things, Emma. If I'm around, she shuts down and gets really quiet and sad and cries a lot when she thinks I don't notice. But I do. And if it's anyone else that's around, she lashes out at them and is really mean."

"Really mean is one way to put it," Emma chuckles.

He gives her a pointed look, one that says that he's in no mood for her deflectionary jokes. "She doesn't want to be that person," he insists.

"And you think we can help her not be it?"

"I think we were helping her, and then we weren't and because of that, this happened." His voice lowers as he speaks, and suddenly he's looking away, his lips curling into a sad frown. "We let her down. I let her down."

"Oh, Henry, no," Emma says, leaning across the bar to touch his shoulder lightly. "What Regina does or doesn't do isn't your responsibility. No matter what you think, you're just a kid, and what happened isn't your fault."

"Isn't it? All she wants is me in her life. She was fighting for me. If we'd believed her instead of Pongo, we would have been there for her and she wouldn't have given in to her mother. That's on us, Emma." He looks up at her with such big wide eyes, so full of hope and trust. So sure that despite his anger over her lying to him about Neal, she can help make this better.

She sighs. "It's more complicated than that. Some things have happened since the Archie incident. And before that, too. Your mom…Regina has done a lot of bad things in her life, and she's made a lot of bad decisions."

"I know. I also know that when she tried not to, we didn't believe her."

"You're really serious about this, aren't you?" Emma queries, turning her head to the side, and studying her son intently, curiously.

"I don't want to lose either of you," he tells her, his voice suddenly sounding so very young and innocent and terribly scared. He stirs his cereal around for a moment before adding, "She's my mom and so are you, Emma. I don't want you to have to go after her because she went after Mary Margaret.

"And you think getting her away from Storybrooke will do...what exactly?"

"Maybe it will let her get all of her angry feelings out in a safe way. If she can't use magic and she can't hurt anyone, maybe she'll have to actually talk things out like she was doing with Archie before her mom screwed everything up. She won't talk to him anymore, but maybe if she doesn't have a choice, she'll talk to us. Maybe she'll talk to me."

"Your mom's not much of a talker."

"He shrugs his shoulders. "So we keep her there until she does."

Emma laughs. "So not only do you want us to kidnap her, you want us to forcibly keep her from returning before we're ready for her to. That all?"

"Yup."

"Do I need to remind you that that's actually illegal? I believe they call that false imprisonment," the sheriff reminds him with a smirk.

"My mom is the Evil Queen," he reminds her.

"True, but that doesn't mean she's not entitled to her rights as a person."

"If she goes after Mary Margaret for making her kill her mother, you're going to have to stop her or lock her up or hurt her. This is better." He looks up at her with fierce certainty shining in his eyes. She wonders if she's a complete fool for listening to a child about matters such as these, and yet, beneath all of the naivety of his thoughts, she wonders if he has a point.

"You really do think I'm the Savior, don't you?"

"I know you are. You saved everyone in this town. Just one more person."

"She's the hardest person of all to save," Emma tells him, and then again wonders why she's having such an intense and adult conversation with her eleven-year-old son. The implications and intricacies of the situation are well beyond his years, and yet here they are discussing it like it's all so simple.

"Superman doesn't get to call himself that for saving kittens," Henry reminds her with an almost derisive scoffing sound accenting his words.

"All right, fine. So what's your plan? Besides the kidnapping part, I mean."

He shrugs his shoulders. "That's where you come in; I'm just a kid, and really, I took care of the hard part by coming up with the kidnapping."

"Oh, now you're a kid."

"Was a kid twenty seconds ago, too," he reminds her with a smirk.

"Uh huh. You do understand that you mom very well might turn me into a toad for this, yeah? Even if we're successful in…defusing her." It's an understatement of a word as far as those go, but she can't really come up with another one to so perfectly explain what they'll be attempting to do.

Calm down an Evil Queen down before she goes homicidal? Yeah, defusing a bomb sounds about right when you think of that way, she realizes.

"She won't."

"And why's that?"

"Because she trusts you."

"Okay, what have you been sniffing and where are you hiding it?"

"What?" he asks, giving her that weird look that reminds her that he's spent most of his life beneath Regina's insanely protective wing; he certainly has no idea about things such as huffing and drug addiction.

"Forget it," she mutters. "What would make you think Regina trusts me? Like you said, my believing in Pongo helped all of this to happen."

"But you couldn't have hurt her if she didn't care."

"I think you're reaching pretty far and pretty hard there, kid, but fine, I'll take your word for it; leave it to me, I'll figure something or other out."

"I knew you would, Emma."

"So, uh, does this mean you forgive me about Neal?"

"I guess so. I just…I don't want to be lied to. I may be only eleven, but I'm not a little kid anymore. I see and hear more than you all think I do."

"I know, and for what it's worth? I get it. I remember wishing people would just be honest with me for once, too. I used to think that all the time when I was a kid. I am sorry. I thought lying to you about Neal was the right thing to do at the time. I know you've probably heard that enough for a lifetime."

He smiles at her as if to confirm her words, then jumps up off the stool. He points at the soggy mess that is her cereal. "That's disgusting."

"What do you know? You have no style," she shoots back.

"Enough to know you're not supposed to drown your cereal." He shakes his head, and she's again reminded of the fact that Regina had raised him for the first eleven years of his life. The way his eyebrow arches as he coolly regards her food choices, disdainful and almost haughty. Yeah.

"Whatever," she drawls. "Go get dressed for school."

"School?"

"School," she confirms. "I'll figure out what to do with Regina, but until I do, you are going to class, and if I find out you skipped…"

She lets that hang for a long moment because honestly she's not at all sure what she would do; being tough mom has never been one of her skillsets, and they're both aware of this. He gives her a look that tells her that he sees right through her, but then bobs his head forward as if to humor her.

"Fine," he says, then turns and heads up the stairs.

She waits until he's gone and sighs loudly, all while stirring the cereal soup. It's been a long last forty-eight hours. Two days earlier, Snow had crossed a line when she'd chosen to manipulate Regina into killing her mother. That Cora had needed to be stopped - perhaps even permanently – is beyond dispute; unchecked, the woman would have certainly killed all of them.

But that doesn't justify putting more blood on Regina's hands.

Snow and David are elsewhere today; he'd taken her to the house that they've been kind of looking at for the last couple of weeks. It's somewhere where they'll be mostly left alone so that they can try to deal with what she's done in a way that won't bring on a lot of attention.

Regina, though she's back at her Mansion according to Red, has been mostly out of sight. What she's planning all alone in the loud silence and solitude of her own thoughts is anyone's guess, but it's not hard to imagine that her intentions are likely bloody and horrible. She's a badly wounded woman right now with a lot of pain and anger. She's essentially someone who has been backed into a corner feeling like they have nothing to lose.

That's dangerous for everyone.

And this damned blood war has gone on long enough.

It's time for it to end.

So apparently, she is going to help Henry with his wild insane absurd idea.

Apparently, she's going to kidnap an Evil Queen.


	2. 1

Warnings For: Mild magical violence, a bit of purple-eyed murderous rage and oh yeah, some Neal, too.

* * *

The decidedly absurd plan to abduct Regina comes together almost shockingly fast once Emma actually stops and takes a few minutes to really think about all the pieces and parts of the overall a woman who has an insane amount of magic coursing through her bloodstream and violent hatred in her heart is close to insanity itself, but then again, so is Regina right now.

Emma thinks that maybe – just maybe - with a little bit of luck, perhaps she can turn that insanity to her advantage.

Maybe. Perhaps. Hopefully.

"Are you sure about this?" David asks, his voice echoing oddly across the phone line. The house that he and Mary Margaret are in right now is completely empty of all furniture aside from an air mattress that he'd brought over for them to presumably sleep on. By the tired and hassled sound of him, she's guessing that there hasn't been much of that happening for anyone. Be that person Mary Margaret, David or Regina.

"I am," Emma answers as she leans across her bed and gathers up a stack of half folded shirts. She frowns a bit at a dark stain she sees on one, rubs it with the pad of her thumb and then tosses the shirt away; there's no point in bringing along anything that will act like a beacon of mockery. And that's what will happen, she knows for damned sure; once Regina is out of the blindly red rage stage, she'll slide back to the sharply worded and delivered insults.

Emma thinks it's maybe just a little bit weird how happy she'll be for that stage. That will be normalcy in a weird way, something she can handle with ease.

Sure, it's just another wall, but it's one she knows how to work with.

"I have to admit, I don't like this, Emma," David tells her with a bit of a muffled yawn breaking up his words. "What better way to get back at your mother than through you? You're practically offering yourself up on a platter."

"That's one way to look at it," she agrees as she zips up the bag. There are enough clothes in there for about a week. Any stay longer than that – and she's assuming that it will be much longer than that - will require some degree of laundry services. Thankfully, where they're going has that.

"What's the other way?" David prompts, his doubt quite clear to her ears.

"I guess maybe the other way to look at it is that I'm taking care of someone whom no one else ever has."

"Why is that your responsibility?" It sounds like an honest question, and she allows his words to roll around in her mind for a moment.

Finally, "It's not, but protecting my family is. That family includes you and Mary Margaret and Henry, and yeah, I suppose it includes Regina, too. Even if maybe we don't want it to. She's his mother, David. He loves her and he doesn't want to lose her, and we both know that if we don't do something, she _will_ do something and then we'll have to do something and then…and then everything will be…well, maybe I think we can stop this."

"Okay, I can buy that. I still think this idea is completely crazy, but I trust your instincts." There's a pause and then he continues with, "But something else about this whole thing is bothering you. Something about her."

Emma chuckles. "Yeah, well, something about Regina has always bothered me." She sighs then, fumbling for a moment with the thick strap of the bag while she tries to pull her thoughts into a coherent sentence. Then, thickly, her eyes stuck on the far wall of the room. "I could have been her."

"No," her father states immediately, and with the kind of confidence that only someone as dead sure of his righteousness as David is can have. "We'd never have allowed that to happen to you. Never."

"You weren't with me for most of my life," she reminds him. "A lot happened to me before I got to Storybrooke. I did a lot of bad things. I know it's a great story to think otherwise, but I'm not the great person everyone wants to make me out to be. I'm just…I'm just me, David."

"Okay," he sighs and he sounds somewhat bothered but not nearly as devastated as Mary Margaret usually seems to be whenever she's reminded of this reality. Once again, Emma finds her aware of the strange separation that exists between she and her father. She's his daughter and there's certainly affection for her, but there's also a wall caused by twenty-eight years of absence and the fact that she's now an adult and not a child and he had no real part in how she got to this place. His voice pulls her from her thoughts as he continues speaking, his tone soft, "But we're here now, Emma. And we'll always be here to catch you. I hope you know that,"

"I…I do, but maybe that's the difference," she responds. "I have you and Mary Margaret. She had Archie and then she didn't because he tried to help her…and then things got crazy. She had Cora, but Cora, well; we know all the good that that woman ever did for her. Pretty much none, but it doesn't matter because in Regina's head, all she knows is that now she has nothing, and I think we all know what happens when she has nothing."

"Too well," he allows with a grunt. "But do you really think that kidnapping her and whisking her out of Storybrooke is the best plan of action?"

She laughs loudly. "It's the worst plan ever," she confesses. "But it just might be the only one that has a chance to work. Away from magic, away from Mary Margaret and with Henry there to try and help her remember why she wanted to be somebody better, well maybe there's a chance."

There's a long pause as he considers her words, and then, grudgingly, he allows in a breathy exhale of air, "All right, I guess that's okay."

"David," she says gently, because she truly doesn't want to hurt him more than the distance between them already does. "I didn't really call you to ask for permission or support. I'm doing this with or without that."

"So why did you call?"

"To let you know that I might be gone for awhile."

"But you will be back?"

"I will; I promise."

"Good. All right, so your mind is made about doing this, I get that. But you'll be careful, right? We can't…we couldn't handle losing you again."

"I'm not going anywhere. I mean, I am, but…hey, in the real world, I'm a hell of a lot stronger than Regina is," Emma reminds him. "I can handle her."

"Maybe, but strength isn't everything, Emma," he tells her in that voice that tells her that he still doesn't understand what this is about. "If it were…"

"I know, but yeah, I'll be careful. Just take care of Mary Margaret. That's what she needs right now. I…well, that's what I need, too."

"Don't you worry about that," he answers with a soft chuckle that is full of a kind of confidence that only he can pull off. "Your mother will recover."

"Hopefully, we all will," Emma sighs. "I'll talk to you in a few days."

"Okay. I love you, Emma."

While she wonders about the sincerity of the sentiment – she thinks what he feels for her is more like some odd kind of kindred affection than love – she appreciates it just the same because these are words that she has heard so rarely in her life. He says them with a kind of ease that she envies, and she wonders whether she'll ever be able to repeat them back to him.

Instead of answering him with her own words, she smiles awkwardly to herself in response. "Bye," she says, hoping he doesn't hear the slight tremor in her voice. She hangs up the phone then, and sighs loudly. After a moment of staring at her cell almost blankly, she pockets it, lifts up the bag – and another filled with clothes for Henry - and exits the bedroom.

It's time to get this show on the road.

There are just a few things that she needs to take care of first.

* * *

"Are you quite certain about this?" the woman asks, her eyes narrowed. She's known as Blue to all of those from the old world. Here in Storybrooke, she still goes by Mother Superior and the almost haughty expression she's wearing – one that is trying to be humble, but failing miserably – explains exactly why she's still carrying around that high and mighty title.

"I am," Emma nods, shifting from foot to foot. This woman makes her oddly anxious, but she doesn't perceive any kind of immediate threat coming at her. It's more that she just gets a feeling that the Fairy just might be more than she's pretending to be. But then again, isn't everyone in Storybrooke?

"All right," Blue nods, the motion sharp and deliberate. "I can help you. You do realize, of course, that the magic will fade once you're across the line."

"I do; that's the point."

"I see. I suppose I needn't warn you that some people are beyond saving?"

Emma frowns at this. "I'd prefer you didn't."

"Because you're afraid that I'm right about her?"

"My son believes in her," Emma says, unwilling to answer the question. The truth about her fears and doubts about change – one that says more about her than Regina – is one she has no intention of discussing with this woman.

"And you? Do you believe in the fallen queen?" Blue asks her with a tilt of her head, and an unsettling degree of curiosity in her eyes.

"I believe in the ability to change _with_ help. I intend to give her that."

"Very well, Sheriff Swan. I'll need your hands and your cuffs."

Emma lifts an eyebrow. "Seriously?"

Blue smiles thinly in response, leaving absolutely no doubt as to her rather dubious feelings about this plan.

"I'm always serious," she states. "Now, please, your hands."

* * *

It feels a bit like walking the Green Mile, Emma thinks. Every step is heavy, cautious and full of emotion and a bit of fear. One of her hands is clenched tight at her side. The other is open, but keeps jumping around, going from a semi-relaxed position at her hip to checking her service pistol, which is holstered behind her back. She runs her fingers over the grip, then floats the hand back to palm and pick at a loose thread on the leg of her jeans.

She's come up the walk to this mansion a hundred times, perhaps more. It's never been like this, though. What she's doing – what she's going to do – is about as risky a play as she's ever made. She's hoping that there will be some reason and rational sense still in Regina; enough, anyway, to ensure that the former queen won't try to murder her before the hellos have even been exchanged. If she's that far gone, all bets are off and this whole plan is doomed to fail. If she's not, if Regina permits just a little bit of air to exist before she inevitably flies off the handle, well really that's all Emma needs.

She thinks about the cuffs, which are clicking against each other inside of the pocket of her jacket, the metal rings clinging every now and again.

She thinks about magic and hate and death and hurt.

She thinks about mothers and blood feuds.

She thinks about Regina and wonders again just what the hell she's thinking.

For Henry, she reminds herself. She's doing this because of him. Yes. Him.

She takes a deep breath as she approaches the front door, her eyes drifting up to settle on the gold numbers there. She lifts her hand, hesitates for a beat, corrals all of her courage, and then reaches forward to knock.

Turns out that she needn't have bothered.

"You really are your father's daughter," she hears from behind her.

She snaps around and stares into the cold red-rimmed eyes of the woman that many in this town know as the Evil Queen. Regina is standing on the sidewalk, purple smoke dissipating around her. She's in neatly ironed slacks and a sharp blazer as usual, but there's something not quite perfect about her appearance. Her makeup is heavy. Too heavy. Like she's trying to cover up hours upon hours of crying. It's enough to make Emma's heart clench.

"Regina," Emma says calmly. Or at least she hopes that's how she sounds

"Miss Swan," comes the still cold response. "Are you really this stupid?"

Emma blinks. "Excuse me?"

"I'll take that as a yes," Regina snaps out, placing a hand on each hip. Her posture is rigid and furious and her gaze is harsh and unforgiving. "You do realize that it's very likely that I won't allow you to leave my property alive, don't you? Or are you counting on your birthing of Henry to save you?"

"My birthing of Henry," Emma repeats before her shaking her head to clear the odd turn of phrase out of her mind. "I'm not here to fight with you."

"Of course not. We both know that despite your terribly cute little fledgling White Knight powers, you're no real match for me. Which means that you're here to try to talk me out of killing your mother for killing mine. How nice it is that someone will always come to plead the case for Snow White." The words are practically spat out, each drenched in venomous rage.

"I am," Emma admits. "Here for that, I mean. I was hoping maybe we could work something out. Something that doesn't involve anymore blood."

Regina laughs coldly at this. "Like what, dear? I'll give up my desire to make your mother finally have to pay for something she's done and in return you'll give me what? A Sunday every two months with the child I raised."

Emma flinches a bit at this because the anger in Regina's voice is so strong, and the pain in her dark red-rimmed eyes is so poignant. "I don't know," she says because honestly, negotiating isn't really part of this plan. "I just know that not doing anything will only lead to a lot of people dying."

Regina sneers and leans in, close enough to kiss Emma if that's what she'd wanted to do. The lack of distance is more than a little disconcerting to the blonde, but she holds her ground because this _is_ part of the plan. "As well they should," Regina snarls. "She took from me and now, I'm going to take something from her. And maybe, just maybe I'll start with you."

"You won't."

Regina pulls back, the surprise clear in her eyes. "And why won't I?"

"Well, because you're right; I did…birth Henry, and that does mean something to you whether you like it or not. It means you owe me."

"You're out of your mind," Regina growls out between tightly clenched perfectly white teeth. Emma can almost see the anger rising up through her, sliding along her skin like a poisonous snake about ready to strike. "If you think I owe you _anything_ for you having gotten down on your hands and knees for Rumplestiltskin's worthless grifter of a son, well then, dear, you're even stupider than you look."

"I think you just called me a whore," Emma states with a shake of her head. She can feel her own irritation growing, perhaps even her own anger, but she forces both down because really, this is just a taste of things to come.

She can't imagine that Regina is likely to suddenly get all pleasant and nice just because they're outside of Storybrooke. In fact, she's rather expecting things to get a whole lot worse before they get better.

"If the shoe fits," comes the sharp answer, a cruel smile accompanying the words. Well, Regina is nothing if not efficient and effective with her insults.

"Yeah, well, just so you know," the blonde sheriff says dryly. "Neal wasn't just some random guy I screwed; I was in love with him at the time."

"Which has what to do with me?"

"Everything. What happened between he and I gave me Henry. And what Neal did to me gave _you_ Henry so I'd think you might be willing to remember that before you start making death threats just for the hell of it."

"Just for the hell of it?" Regina rages. "She forced me to murder my own mother, you idiot girl. Do you have any clue what that's like?" The vein in her forehead is pulsing rapidly, furiously, and for a moment, Emma has the strangely unnerving idea that it just might suddenly explode.

"No, but I also don't know what it's like to have had Cora as my mother."

Regina's head snaps back on her neck sharply. "Watch yourself."

Emma ignores her, pushing forward almost forcefully, "I mean, I had a lot of shit foster parents, and some of them were pretty damned violent and mean, but none of them actively worked to destroy me like your mother-"

And that's as much as Regina will allow. Frankly, Emma's surprised that it's taken this long; from the moment the queen had appeared behind her on the walk, she'd known that there was no other way for things to go than this one. Thankfully, this is the one thing that Emma _had_ planned for.

She'd known from the beginning of this whole damned plan that Regina would never leave Storybrooke willingly. Not before she got her revenge, anyway. Her mind is too polluted by rage and hatred and her heart is too seized with hurt and grief to be able to think clearly or coherently. There's simply no place inside of her for reason.

There's no place for healing, either.

Which is why this has to happen the way it is.

God, she hopes Blue isn't some magical crank and actually knows her shit.

"How dare you," Regina growls, and suddenly she's lifting her hands, which are both circled in rings of bright red light. Not fireballs, but some kind of energy that Emma just knows could be deadly if allowed to connect with her. She wonders if the brunette woman is in any way in charge of her mind right now, wonders if Regina has any control over her darker self.

She thinks not.

Well that's okay because that, too, was part of the plan.

Regina violently thrusts her hands forward, as if to throw the energy at Emma, and then suddenly she's the one being tossed backwards into the hedges, a loud grunt of surprise tearing from her lips just before her head loudly connects with the ground and slumps against it, a crimson trail of blood leaking down from a jagged cut on her temple.

Now standing several feet away from the fallen queen, Emma feels light circling her, acting as some kind of magical force field.

Apparently, Blue does know her stuff.

"Wow," Emma mutters, looking down at her hands. She shakes her head, laughs a bit nervously, and then makes her way over to the unconscious woman. She drops down to her knees, leans over and checks for a pulse – finding a strong one – and then lets out a sigh of relief. She runs a finger over the cut; it's more than a little bloody, but not terribly deep. Reaching into her jacket, she extracts the handcuffs and clicks each of the bracelets around an individual wrist. She considers for a moment tightening them more than is technically necessary, but stops herself before doing so.

This is all about stopping vengeance and pettiness, not perpetuating it.

She's about to try to pick Regina up when she feels his presence above her. She rolls her head to the side and looks up at him, her lip quirked in an expression of bemused annoyance. "You going to help me or just watch?"

"Well," he says, "I was curious if you could actually lift her up," Neal admits from where he's leaning against the hedges. He's smiling awkwardly.

"I can, but if you're willing to help, well I'd be appreciative."

He sighs. "What do you need?"

"Her laid out in the backseat of the car over there."

He turns his head and looks towards the street. "Where's the Bug?"

"With Ruby. I traded her car for it. At least until I get back."

"Because you need to transport an unconscious queen out of town."

"I see you've talked to David."

"I did. I was looking for you. He's not all that thrilled about this plan of yours. Can't say I am, either."

"Not sure you have the right to an opinion about this."

"Yeah, probably not," he admits. He shuffles his feet a bit before saying, "But what he said is right? You are leaving town with her? And Henry?"

"I have to do this," Emma tells him, slightly surprised at the vehemence she hears in her own voice. Fifteen minutes ago, she'd been uncertain about this whole thing, wondering if she could think of a way to back out of this absolutely absurd plan. Now, though? Now she knows that this is the only way to stop an all-out blood war from occurring. Now she's certain that if this doesn't work, nothing will. Which means that this _has_ to work.

"And us?" he pushes.

She purses her lips and shakes her head, frowning a bit as she says, "There's no us, Neal. You're engaged to be married and…"

"That's not what I meant, Emma. I get it. I gave you up. There are mornings – a lot of mornings, actually - where I wake up wishing I could go back to that day and change things, but I can't. I get it; what's done is done. I don't regret it because you found your family, and maybe that will eventually make you happy. Me, too, maybe, but I get why we are…what we are."

"Okay, then…"

"I guess I was just hoping we could be…"

"Friends?"

"Yeah," he says, then shrugs his shoulders. "We have Henry."

"I think…I don't think we're there yet," she tells him.

"Oh. Right. Okay." He shuffles his feet again. "But does that mean that you're going to shut me out of Henry's life, too?"

"No, but we're not the only ones _in_ his life, Neal." She indicates towards the unconscious woman. "She's his mother. I gave him up because you put me in prison. Whatever your reasons, that's what happened. I couldn't give him the childhood I wanted for him so I gave him up, and she gave that to him."

"She's the Evil Queen."

"True, but she still loved him and took care of him to the best of her ability, and maybe she wasn't always above board about how she did things, but she did try to do right by him. And here's the thing, Neal: no matter who she is, Henry still loves her because all the Evil Queen stuff aside, she's his mom, and he thinks she can be a better person. He believes that deep down, she wants to be a better person. So do I." She lifts an eyebrow and looks pointedly at him. "And you know what? So do you about your father."

"Yeah, but I know that he never will be."

"Maybe, but your father and Regina aren't the same person. Just because one of them can't walk away from power doesn't mean the other can't."

"And yet you're taking her out of town to force her to do that."

"I'm taking her to a safe place where I hope she can heal."

"And if she can't?"

Emma shrugs her shoulders, trying to feign confidence that she doesn't feel. "I don't know. I guess I'm hoping we won't have to cross that bridge."

"I don't want to lose Henry again."

"You won't," she promises. "I'm hoping none of us will. That's what this is all about. Our son is fighting like hell to keep his family together. He's an amazing kid, Neal, but neither you nor I had anything to do with that. She did. And I owe it to him and I guess to her, too, to try to make this right."

"Okay, I get it." He leans down and lifts Regina's surprisingly light body up into his arms. He carries her towards the car, Emma walking at his side.

"Are you going to stay here or return to New York?"

"I'm going back there."

"What about your father?"

"It's complicated, and I'm not yet ready to be around him every day. I promised him I'll come back as often as I can, but I still need space."

She just smiles in response because try as she might, it's hard for her to root too hard for these two; yes, she hopes that Neal can be happy because spiteful and vindictive is never something that Emma Swan has ever wanted to be (that she's failed at this a time or two is something that she carries around with her as proof of how hard a person can allow themselves to fall), but it's difficult to spend too much energy cheering on the reunion when it was that desire to reunite which had allowed for all of this to happen.

If Rumple had chosen Bae, then Regina might not have become the Evil Queen and cursed an entire land to a small town in Maine.

Then again, if she really wants to consider cause and effect – and she doesn't – had Rumple chosen his son, Regina might never have been born.

But what's done is indeed done, and there's only forward to go from here.

"I'll text you when we get where we're going," Emma assures him as she pulls the car door open. "I have no idea how long, but we could be there a good long while. Regina isn't going to…well, it's not going to be easy."

"You'll let me see Henry time to time, though, right?"

"Yeah. Of course."

"Thank you," he says, before leaning in and kissing her lightly on the cheek. She feels her heart accelerate for a moment, but is only moderately surprised when it slows just as quickly. Some feelings apparently do fade with time. "I am sorry," he tells her once he's pulled back and away.

She lets the words slide over her. It's what she's wanted to hear almost since the day she'd been arrested. She's not sure if it's enough– it probably isn't – but she thinks that maybe if she's about to preach forgiveness and letting go of old hurts to Regina, it's time to take her own advice. She'd spent a lot of time and emotion being angry. She'd even let it consume her and turn her towards deeds that she might not have otherwise considered. Now, perhaps, though, now maybe it's time to forgive and move on.

"I know," she replies. Making the choice to be the bigger woman here, she takes his hand and squeezes it, allowing for some old sentiment to seep through for just a moment before she clears her throat. "Back seat. Gently. The last thing I want to hear from her is that we kinked her neck."

"You are insane," he laughs. "You know this, right?"

"All too well," she admits wryly as she watches Neal place Regina across the backseat. She sees the handcuffs that are around Regina's wrists glimmer a bright shining blue, a sign of the magic that had been sprinkled atop the metal bracelets. They're meant to stop the former queen from being able to utilize her magic within city limits should she regain consciousness there.

Once they're outside of Storybrooke, they'll become just normal handcuffs just as Regina will become just a normal hurt and brokenhearted woman.

Yeah, except there's nothing normal about Regina Mills, magic or otherwise.

But then maybe, Emma thinks, that's why they've always understood each other. And maybe that's also why they've always tried to push each other as far away as possible – because seeing understanding and recognition of pain and hurt in someone else's eyes is more than a just little bit terrifying.

"Be careful," Neal tells her as he watches her shut the car door.

"I will. And Neal, good luck. With…whatever you're doing."

He smiles at her. It doesn't quite meet his eyes, but she doesn't need it to. One more touch of his arm, and then she's walking away from him, satisfied that while some things between them will never been forgotten, she's finally been able to put behind her the pain of his abandonment and betrayal.

Seems like as good a place as any to begin this adventure.

* * *

She pulls the car up in front of the private school a few minutes later, and is greatly relieved to find Henry already there and waiting, his backpack slung carelessly over his shoulder. He's nearly bouncing with excitement, his eyes bright and wide. He waves at her once their eyes meet.

"Hey," he calls out as he pulls the door open and jumps in. "Ruby's car?"

"Yep. Gonna miss the Bug?"

"Not really," he admits with a grin. He glances into the backseat, and immediately his expression drops into a frown as his bright green eyes settle on the unconscious form of his adoptive mother. "Is she okay? She's bleeding." He reaches out towards Regina as if to touch her.

"Wait," Emma says, catching his hand and squeezing it. "Wait until we're across the line. We don't want to accidently wake her up."

"She won't hurt me," he answers defiantly.

"She might not mean to, but she's not going to be happy about what we're doing here," Emma reminds him. "And I'd feel a whole lot better if we didn't wake her up before we're certain that she can't turn both of us into…well, whatever Evil Queens turn people they're pissed off at into."

"Fine," he grumbles. They drive for a few minutes, heading towards the town line, and then he asks softly, "Do you think this will work?"

Emma laughs. "It's a bit late to be worried about that since we've already kidnapped her." She sombers up a bit when she sees his serious expression, his eyes so wide and worried and just a little bit afraid. "I think we'll do whatever we need to do to make sure it works," she assures him.

"Even if she gets angry and tries to hurt you?"

"I'm kind of expecting her to try," Emma admits. "But I'm pretty tough."

"You're not _nearly_ tough enough to deal with me, Miss Swan," a voice rumbles from the backseat. It's low and throaty, and it just about scares the living shit out of Emma. So much so that she almost jerks the wheel entirely to the side, which causes the car to skid a bit. Thankfully, Henry reacts quickly and grabs the wheel to steady them out (suddenly she's very glad that she's been allowing him to play so many games of Mario Kart).

"Jesus fuck, Regina," Emma gasps, a hand over her heart. She looks in the rearview mirror and is infinitely relieved to see the older woman trying to force her magic forward and failing thanks to the now glittering handcuffs.

"What have you done to me?" the older woman growls out as her eyes snap from Emma to Henry and then back to Emma. "This is kidnapping." She holds up her wrists and jangles the cuffs as if to punctuate her words.

"Exactly," Emma says. "And one day, you're going to thank me for it."

And then, as if to punctuate her _own_ point, she drives the car right over the town line. There's a shimmer of light as they cross over the border, and then Regina gasps as the magic inside of her is quite literally turned off.

"Mom?" Henry asks, reaching for her.

She meets his hopeful but scared eyes with her own wide pained ones. She mouths his name almost desperately, and then suddenly she's pitching backwards onto the seat, unconsciousness dragging her down once more.

"Mom?" he says again. "Emma, I think…"

"No, hey, it's all right, kid," Emma assures him with a faint smile. "Don't worry. Your mom isn't affected by the memory part of the curse, but there _are_ some side effects, apparently. Blue told me to expect that if she was awake when we crossed the line that it might hit her kind of hard. It did."

"But she's okay, right?"

Emma thinks about this for a moment, and then says solemnly, her words almost a promise, "She will be."


	3. 2

Regina wakes up about forty-five minutes into the drive. Icy sheets of rain are coming down all around them, and there's a brutal whistling wind battering the side of Ruby's car. Inside of the comfortably warm vehicle, however, all the attention immediately sweeps towards the brunette woman as she rather dramatically jerks forward on the backseat, a hand rising to her wounded forehead, her fingers glancing against the still weeping cut there.

"Ow," the former queen hisses, sealing her eyes shut in reaction as a bolt of pain rushes through her skull. She feels the blood beneath her fingertips, and it makes her stomach roll.

"Mom?" Henry asks as he faces her completely, his expression something between a smile and a grimace. His favorite blanket is slung over his knees; a last minute grab by Emma before she'd left the loft.

She forces her eyes open, looks up at him, starts to speak and then groans.

"Regina?" Emma prompts, turning her head ever so slightly so that she can get a look at the sickly looking woman in the backseat. She doesn't dare take too much attention off the road. Not in these conditions. "You okay?"

"No, Miss Swan, I am most certainly not okay. I believe that I'm going to be sick," Regina manages, her voice raspy and choked. "Pull over."

"Are you serious?" Emma exclaims, frowning a bit as a spray of rain slaps hard against the windshield. Visibility is slim to none right about now, and she really doesn't fancy stalling out to allow Regina a chance to run.

"Very much so, but if you'd prefer I throw up in this lovely vehicle of yours, well that's fine, too; I'm not sure we'd notice the difference."

"Emma," Henry cautions, taking in his adoptive mother's waxy complexion. The red gash on her forehead is vivid against her unusually pale skin. "I think we should listen to her. She looks like she's about to hurl." He wrinkles his nose in childlike disgust at the thought of Regina doing so anywhere in his vicinity. It really doesn't matter how old you are; that's still gross.

"Fine," the blonde grunts, pulling the car over to the side of the road. She puts it into park, and then gets out, stepping into the rain. Grumbling, she moves back to the passenger door and unlocks it from the outside (she'd specifically engaged the child locks to try to prevent Regina from doing something stupid – like she herself would do – such as try to jump from a moving vehicle) and yanks it open. She offers a hand. "Here, let me –"

"I don't need your help," Regina growls in response as she shimmies along the seat, her cuffed hands held up high in front of he of her body.

"Okay," Emma answers as she backs away from the door, palms held up in surrender. "But since your center of balance is off, this could get messy."

Regina throws her an icy glare, but otherwise ignores the blonde woman as she rather awkwardly – and clearly uncomfortably - pushes herself out of the car and into the standing position, using the side of the vehicle to balance herself. Her face tightens as the rain and wind strike against her. A moment later, though, she's doubling over towards the side of the road.

Apparently, she wasn't lying about feeling sick.

Emma moves a couple feet away to allow Regina some privacy. She's not terribly surprised by this turn of events; not only had Regina taken a whack to the forehead back at the mansion during their little magic fight, but she'd also had her powers snapped off like a light switch as they'd driven over the town line. Those two things together certainly add up to nausea.

She listens to the sound of Regina retching for a few seconds before Henry's voice redirects her back towards the car. "Is my mom all right?" he calls out from inside, his young face screwed up into an expression of intense worry.

"Yeah, I think she's just a little bit sick from the whole disappearing magic thing," Emma tells him as she leans in, offering him a small not quite honest smile. "She'll be okay. Do me a favor, though; reach behind you and open the cooler. I think I brought some Sprite for you. She'd probably like –"

"Emma," he cuts her off suddenly, eyes widening in alarm.

"What? What is it?"

"Mom!" And then he points out towards the road. "She's running!"

She snaps around and sighs. "Goddammit," she growls out as she watches Regina staggering down the water soaked road, ambling towards a nearby row of trees. The escape attempt is utterly absurd – Regina's cuffed and likely still queasy – but Emma feels as annoyed with herself as she does with Regina; she knows better than to turn her back on a prisoner.

And yeah, until they get where they're going and she can convince Regina to give this whole therapy away from magic thing a chance, the Evil Queen is definitely a prisoner of the Savior. It's honestly best for everyone.

She hopes, anyway.

"Stay there," she orders Henry before taking a deep breath. She lifts her hand up, wipes rain away from her forehead and eyes, and then tears after the disappearing woman who has now reached the trees and is slowly disappearing into them. Emma narrows her eyes as she moves; focusing on the red blazer that Regina is wearing, concentrating on that and that alone.

The ground gives slightly under her feet, but years of hunting criminals through some of the most disgusting environments and locations ever created keeps her upright and moving. Regina, on the other hand, is both a former mayor and a fallen queen; she might know how to navigate a forest on horseback but in heels and cuffs, she's at a complete disadvantage.

Which works out great for Emma as she catches up to the older woman almost immediately and not at all for Regina as the blonde slams her body into the brunette's back, throwing both of them to the muddy forest floor.

"What the hell!"

"Stay," Emma snaps, and it's mostly just a random word that spits from her mouth and not quite an order, but Regina takes it as such and begins to flip out in true lunatic fashion, panicking as she's held down against the ground.

For Emma, this is always the point where things tend to get really interesting, and rarely in a good way. Once the bounty is down and she's atop them trying to regain control of the situation, they always struggle.

She's expecting that to happen here, too, and though Regina Mills is unlike any other person that Emma has ever met, there are some consistents in life, and trying to get away when you're restrained is certainly one of those.

And Regina does try. Oh, does she try.

She thrashes and kicks and spins her lithe body around as hard and as violently as she can, her sharp elbows catching Emma twice in the ribs. It's the second time that pisses the sheriff off enough to angrily flip the cursing and furious Regina around onto her back. Once the woman is there, her head flopping repeatedly and painfully against the wet dirt, Emma moves back atop her again, straddling the older woman's thighs as she grits out, "Stop fighting me or I swear to God, Regina, I will knock your ass out. Evil Queen or not, if you hit me again I will clock you into tomorrow."

"I'm not afraid of you," Regina hisses, head raised about as high as she can reasonably manage. Her tone is defiant, but shaky. Uncertain. Despite her words, she quite clearly is more than a little bit scared, and that frankly unsettles Emma more than she cares to admit.

Because it means something.

This fear of being restrained and being controlled, it speaks to who Regina is now, who she has become and why they're being forced to do this.

"Good," Emma says finally. "Because believe it or not, Regina, I don't actually want you to be afraid of me so if you will please stop –"

But of course she won't because she's Regina and despite all that she has been through, this is a woman who doesn't know how to stop fighting.

And honestly, Emma of all people should have seen it coming.

One moment she's straddling Regina, and the next she's gasping in pain when the brunette's right knee suddenly jerks up and slams into her groin.

As she's reeling backwards, wincing, Emma finds herself insanely grateful that she isn't a man because if she were, she's pretty damned sure that she'd never be using certain vital body parts again. For anything.

"Fuck," she hisses, hot tears running down her face. "Fucking fuck."

And then she turns and sees Regina crawling away.

It's the most ridiculous thing that she's ever seen: this proud and insanely powerful woman on her hands and knees, the rain beating down against her, and the wind reddening her cheeks. Dirt bites into her palms and stains her skin dark, but the brunette doesn't seem to notice.

Which seems just plain wrong to the sheriff.

"Regina, come on. Stop." Emma pushes to her feet and stumbles over to where Regina is (she hasn't gotten far thanks to her cuffed hands). She realizes perhaps a moment too late that it looks like she's standing over Regina. Which she is, but the posture, well it appears dominant.

Like maybe she enjoys having the Evil Queen on her knees before her.

"Never," Regina growls, looking up, her dirt-smeared face a mask of anger and fear. "So if you thought I'd beg for mercy, Miss Swan, if that was your plan, well I'm afraid that I'm going to have to disappoint you, my dear."

"Excuse me?"

Slowly, painfully, awkwardly, Regina pushes herself back up to her feet. "That's why I'm out here in the woods, isn't it? So that you can execute me? Did you expect me to beg for mercy first? Because I won't. I will not."

"What? Jesus, no, Regina. No…no." Feeling a bit like she's been gut-punched, Emma backs up a few steps. "That's not what this is about at all."

"Really? Then why are we out here?" She sounds skeptical, suspicious and damned close to homicidal; Emma has no doubt that had Regina a weapon available to her, she would utilize it right now with murderous intent.

"We're out here because you ran!" Emma practically screams, her own frustration and the icy cold weather creating a volatile mixture within her.

"I ran because you kidnapped me. So that you could bring me out here!"

"Are you…do you even hear the words you're saying?"

Regina laughs coldly. "Frankly, I'm surprised that your parents aren't here to witness this. I would have expected your mother to want to see it. It'll certainly help her feel better about herself to have me dead and buried."

"Regina, stop. I'm not going to murder you."

Another shrill laugh. "No, no. Of course not. I'm an enemy of the crown, aren't I? It's not murder, then. It's a lawful monarchy approved execution."

"Well since we don't live in a monarchy, that doesn't exactly apply here."

"Don't we? You are a princess. You can do whatever you'd like."

"Shut up. Just…shut up, would you, please?" Emma hisses, stepping closer to her, their icy visible breaths practically mingling. "I'm not a princess and I'm not here to hurt you in any way, okay? I'm here to help you."

"Help me? Really? By attacking me at my house and then restraining me with cuffs," she lifts up her hands, "By bringing me out to the middle of nowhere and then tackling me into the dirt like a common criminal?"

"Well first, Your Majesty, you're the one who ran into the woods; I just followed after. Second, do you really think I'd bring our son out here if I were planning on murdering you and third…really, Regina? Really?"

Regina just stares back at her, and there's something scared and lost that Emma sees in the brunette's dark haunted eyes. Something that tells Emma that yes, Regina really did believe that she'd been brought out here to die.

It's enough to make Emma take a step back. Maybe try to start over.

"Okay, how about we take a deep breath, huh?" Emma prompts.

"I'm breathing just fine," Regina retorts. It's a lie, though, because they're both breathing hard, both of them feeling the tension of the encounter.

"Yeah, sure, of course you are. And you're shivering just fine, too. So maybe if you'd like to stop fighting me for half of a goddamned second, then maybe just maybe we can get back to the car and get warm and dry."

"Not until you tell me why I am out here. Why did you kidnap me?"

"I already told you, Regina; to help you."

"Help me with what?"

"Well, for starter's: not killing people."

"You mean your mother." Regina nods her head, like this all makes sense now. It's enough to make Emma curl her hands into fists.

And count to ten. And twenty.

"I mean anyone," Emma grits out. "I want to help you to try to not be _her_."

Regina snorts at this. "Well then, my dear Sheriff Swan, you are wasting your time because I am now and will always be her. _The Evil Queen_."

"I don't believe that, and neither does Henry."

As always, Henry's name does the trick and all of the anger just fades away.

There's a moment of silence as Regina rolls Emma's shouted words around in her head, turning them over and possibly even considering their potential honesty. Unfortunately, though, after a few tense seconds, long nurtured suspicion and paranoia win out within the former mayor's troubled mind.

She steps towards Emma, then, sliding into the blonde woman's personal space once more. "I don't know what your angle is, Miss Swan, and I don't know why you're not killing me when you have the chance to, but I want to be very clear: no matter what you do to me, no matter what you try, I will not let you break me if that's your game. I've never let anyone break me before and I'm sure as hell not about to start now. Your mother didn't break me and you most certainly will not, either. So if that's what this is about, you're better to just take your gun out and put a bullet between my eyes."

Emma blows out a gust of air between teeth ground tight in frustration. "You really are a piece of work," she says. "But since I'm neither planning to shoot you or break you at the moment, maybe we can try walking instead."

"You first," Regina suggests with a small cold smile. She gestures with her cuffed hands, the chain making a hollow clinking sound as she moves it.

"Yeah, I'm really not half as stupid as you think I am," Emma mutters. She places her hand flat against Regina's back and gives her a hard push towards the road. The rain has thankfully slowed down to a cold sprinkle, but the mud everywhere is wet and sucking and each step feels more than a little dangerous. She sees Regina stumble a bit, and though a very big part of her really doesn't have much of an issue with watching the former mayor do a face first plant, the more noble side of her wins out enough to make her reach out to grab Regina by the hand so as to steady the woman.

Not that Regina is at all grateful for the assistance. "Unhand me."

"Sure, whatever. Tell me something, Regina; did you really think you could get away from me? Out in the middle of nowhere and in the middle of a rainstorm? You do happen to remember what I used to do before I came to Storybrooke, right? Chasing down runners was my day and my night job."

"I recall," Regina replies coolly. "I just assumed that you were exaggerating your aptitude at such just as you exaggerate every other part of yourself."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Absolutely nothing, Sheriff; forget I said it. Now, since the car is right up above, perhaps we should discuss pretending for Henry that you weren't just planning to murder me in the middle of the woods, yes?"

Emma actually growls in response to this. "You know what? Whether you want to believe it or not, I'm going out on a major limb for you so maybe just maybe, for three seconds, you can stow the attitude and –"

"What? Be appreciative that you rendered me unconscious with magic, and kidnapped me? Should I be appreciative for the fact that you abducted me so that you could save your pathetic mother from my anger? Anger that is well deserved and well earned considering what she made me do, I might add? Well then, yes, Sheriff, I'm so very thankful for your desire to strip me of my free will because really, no one else in my life ever has."

Emma softens considerably at this. "Regina –"

"Enough. I have no idea what you're planning or what you think any of this will accomplish, but for the sake of my son, I will pretend to behave. At least for the time being. But do not think for even a moment that I won't find a way out of this situation and when I do, you will pay for what you've done."

Emma closes her eyes. She prays for strength and calm and patience all the while reminding herself that she, too, is doing this for Henry.

"Get in," she sighs after a moment as they reach the car. She yanks the door open, and then shoves at Regina's shoulder, practically pushing her inside.

The older woman all but falls in, but quickly recovering some degree of moderate grace, she rights herself and moves to the middle of the seat. She lifts her head up, then, and smiles at Henry, the expression wide and fake and utterly unconvincing. "Honey," she says. "Everything's fine."

"It is?" he frowns.

"Of course it is. Miss Swan and I just needed to speak."

He rolls his eyes at this. "You tried to run; you're not fine."

Her expression falters; for someone who has utilized masks as efficiently and as effectively as she has throughout her damaged history, she always finds it rather hard to hide her true feelings from her son.

And from his birth mother, too, for that matter.

Not that she wants to dwell on that.

"I…"

"I know," he says, his voice terribly soft and perhaps even uncomfortably understanding. "And I know you didn't want this, but you do need it."

"Need what?" she asks gently, her eyes flickering up as a now almost violent shivering Emma gets into the car and slams the door shut behind her. The engine was left on for Henry so the cabin is still warm and ready to go. Her expression tight and frustrated, Emma pushes the vehicle out of drive and moves it back to the now very dark and muddy road.

"To be free of the magic."

"Henry."

He shakes his head, making it clear that he has no intention of being mollified or told that he doesn't understand and perhaps never could. "No, magic was never good for you, Mom. It never helped you be anything but someone you never wanted to be. We can."

His expression is so honest and hopeful, so full of love and affection that she hasn't seen for so very long that it renders her completely speechless.

"I don't think –"

He stops her cold, his gaze so focused and determined. He's eleven years of age, but at this moment, he's so very much older than that in spirit. "We can," he says again. "If you'll just trust us."

She can't tell him just how hard trusting is for her so she simply smiles sadly and hopes that it's enough to end this uncomfortable conversation.

And then she looks up towards Emma and sees the woman smirking back at her – almost smugly – from the front seat. The rational part of her insists that it's just the blonde sheriff making a silent comment about Henry's ability to reason with his adoptive mother, but the darker side of her starts screaming at her, telling her that this is all part of some kind of cruel trick.

But then Henry's reaching for her and touching her arm, and even if she doesn't trust Emma's intentions, she realizes that she trusts his.

He's protected her before; she has to hope he's doing so now, too.

She closes her eyes and lets his small warm hand slide into her much cooler one. When he squeezes, she squeezes back and then she holds on tight.

* * *

It's almost three hours – and two uncomfortable in-and-out naps for Regina– later when they finally reach the beach house. It's beautiful and modern and full of large glass windows. There's a sprawling oak deck that surrounds the massive structure, which is held up off the ground by large supports.

"Here we are," Emma says as she gets out of the car. It's mostly just misting now, a fine spray of water lightly drifting around in the cool coastal air.

"Where's here?" Henry asks.

"Can't tell ya that, kid," Emma grins in response. She adds a wink and he laughs. She almost adds a line about having to kill him, but chooses not to when she catches the icy glare that Regina is throwing her way.

"How droll, Sheriff," Regina sighs. "You really think hiding the location of this place will keep me from escaping and making my way home?"

"That's actually exactly what I'm thinking, Your Majesty" Emma confirms as she pulls the back door open. "Now, do you need help this time?"

"Still no. Never from you."

"Mom," Henry cautions, tilting his head. "Let Emma help. Please?"

Her face contorts a bit, but then, with an angry grunt, she lifts up her hands.

"How's your head?" Emma queries as she leans in, her green eyes going up to the now bright red cut on Regina's forehead. It's not deep, and stitches probably aren't warranted, but it really should have been taken care of hours ago. The dirt that had gotten into it thanks to their run and tackle through the forest certainly hasn't helped in keeping it clean and sanitary.

"It's fine. Just give me your arm and get me out of this car. And no, I won't say 'please' so you can either do as I ask or let me do it on my own."

Emma's jaw twitches and for half a moment, she thinks both of kicking the damned woman out of the car and driving away and of walking into the house and letting Regina get herself up on her own. Ultimately, she does neither, instead reaching down to clutch Regina's arm and help her out.

"I'm a lot more stubborn than you think," she growls into Regina's ear.

"So am I, dear," comes the practically purred response.

"We'll see," Emma says before pushing Regina towards the house.

* * *

The décor inside is mostly glass and metal, the colors muted and the furniture sparse and specific. Not that Regina has much chance to think about this before she's being shoved into one of the bedrooms and tossed onto a fairly firm king sized bed. "What the hell?" Regina grinds out as she struggles to sit up. She honestly needn't have bothered because almost before she can get her head up, Emma's pushing her back down.

"I'm sorry about this," Emma offers up as she once again straddles Regina's hips. This certainly isn't her preferred way to do this but absent knocking the brunette out cold (a serious consideration, honestly) she doesn't know of a better way to move around the handcuffs on the damned woman without risking another attempted escape adventure. "But I need to do a few errands before we can get fully settled in."

"And that has what to do with you assaulting me?"

"I'm not assaulting you; I'm restraining you."

"On top of me?"

"Unfortunately."

"I'm beginning to think you enjoy sitting on me. Do you, Sheriff? Is that what this is all about? Some twisted little sexual fantasy of yours?"

"Yes, exactly; I brought our son to a beach house in the middle of nowhere so that I can have my wicked perverted way with your psychotic Royal Majesty. Jesus, where the fuck do you come up with this shit, Regina?"

Regina purses her lips at this, but continues right on glaring. The moment Emma unsnaps one of the cuffs, she tries to lurch up and attack the sheriff, but the blonde is both faster and stronger out here in the non-magic world.

With considerable force borne of annoyance, she slams Regina back against the bed and snaps the open cuff to the swirling design metal bedframe.

"I'll release you as soon as we get back," Emma promises. "But I sure as hell didn't go to all the trouble of kidnapping you and bringing you all the way out here just to let you escape on the very first night."

"Did you ever think that it wasn't your right to do this? Or is it your title as the Savior going to your head?" Regina growls out, yanking sharply at the cuffs. They were tight before when they were around both hands, but now that's it's just one, and she's struggling, she can feel the painful chaffing.

"I thought maybe I could do right by you, Regina. That's what this is about; I am trying to stop you from crossing a line that you can't come back from."

"I've crossed so many of those in my life, my dear; what's one more?"

"Yeah, well, I don't know much about those lines and I can't do anything about them now anyway, but this one, maybe this one we can help," Emma tells her. She stares at Regina for a long pointed moment before saying in an almost gentle voice, "That cut looks ugly. I'll see if I can find a –"

"Absolutely not. You are not to touch me in any way, do you understand?"

Emma holds up her hands once again in defeat. "Of course. God forbid while I'm already sitting on top of you that I try to make sure that you're not suffering from some kind of concussion. Or infection."

"Well, the easy solution to that is to get the hell off of me."

"Sure, fine, whatever" Emma says as she crawls off the former mayor, and moves to the opposite side of the room, safely away from Regina's physical fury. "We're going to and get some food and supplies. We'll be back in about an hour or so, and then maybe you and I can have a glass of wine and try to actually talk about things that don't involve ripping out hearts."

"How romantic," Regina drawls.

"Yeah, aren't I just? Try not to pull against the cuffs too much; you won't get loose, but you probably will cut the hell out of yourself if you try to."

And with that – and before Regina can reply – she turns and exits the room.

"Hey," she says to Henry when she sees him standing in the front room, bags around him. He's looking side-to-side and frowning. "What's wrong?" she asks as she steps closer. She's not sure she can handle any kind of big problems right about now; she's already exhausted and annoyed.

He gestures towards the duffels, pointing first at hers and then at his. "I see your bag and I see mine. What about hers?"

"Hers," Emma repeats, dread and realization whipping through her.

Henry tilts his head and she finds herself reminded once again of exactly who it was that had raised him. "You…forgot to pack her a bag? Really?"

"Shit."

He lifts an eyebrow at her, and the look might as well be saying in an almost haughty tone, "Language, Miss Swan."

It's enough to make her laugh because really, this is all so insane.

"I guess we're going clothes and food shopping, kid."

"You're going to clothes shop for my mom?"

She offers a somewhat sickly smile. "I guess I am."

"Oh, this should be fun," he laughs, shaking his head as he walks back through the door, out into the cool coastal air.

"My thoughts exactly."

**TBC...**


	4. 3

Warnings: Some salty language, moderate self-harm (in the context of trying to escape) and a brief reference to Regina's marriage to Leopold.

* * *

The moment the door closes behind Henry and Emma, she leans forward on the bed as much as she can manage. She waits until she hears the car engine wheeze to life, and then she starts pulling at the cuffs, yanking against them as hard as she can. It's damned near impossible for her to think of allowing anything to defeat her, and it's somehow even worse to think that it might be something as pedestrian as a metal bedframe that does so.

Still, despite her intense focus on getting herself out of this absurd mess, after almost two dozen pulls that do little more than cause her wrist to bleed and her back to ache, Regina Mills finds herself having to admit that brute strength and simple force of will aren't going to get to get it done.

"Dammit," she growls just before she drops her head back against the oversized pillow beneath her. She can feel the stinging almost searing pain radiating from her now injured wrist, and her head is once again pounding.

That's not the worse of it, though.

She's beat down tired, and not just physically so. These terrible last few weeks have been a maddening whirl of every nightmare that she's ever had and then some. So little time has passed and yet so very much has changed.

A month ago, she'd been humbly keeping her head down and her ears clean all the while trying to do right by Henry. Then, by the wishing well, she'd make the mistake of allowing that need to please him - to make him proud of her - step in the way of the voice in her head that had warned her that if she allowed his blonde mother to return home, she'd lose her son forever.

And that's exactly what had happened or so she'd thought after she'd been accused of murdering the cricket. She'd been pushed into hiding, and then ended up falling back into her mothers' arms with the kind of simpering ease that would sicken her if her rage wasn't completely shorting out her common sense. Instead, that white-hot fury is all she feels right now.

Well, that and fear.

Despite what she'd defiantly and proudly snapped up at Emma, she _is_ afraid because in her entire life, no one aside from Daniel has ever done anything for her without expecting something in return. Worse, no one has ever offered to help her without their assistance being little more than a tidy set of strings attached to her back. She's been a puppet and a pawn of so many people, and perhaps the most pathetic part of it all is just how many times she's walked into such inevitable disasters almost willingly simply because she'd craved the potential end results.

Results which have almost never materialized.

She'd cast the curse hoping for a happy ending for her and pain for everyone else. What she'd gotten instead had been mindless soulless monotony and eventually, simply more heartbreak and loss.

And then there had been her mother.

She quickly – like snapping a light off – flicks her thoughts away from the subject of her mother. It's too painful, too complicated and too dark.

Beneath the surface of her hurt is something else; something that she doesn't know how to deal with, and has never known how to deal with.

Relief.

So she simply refuses to allow herself to feel it.

The corrosive rage that slithers through her bloodstream feels strong and powerful, the burning heartache feels clear and cold, and the icy touch of vengeance within her heart is comfortable. She understands these feelings, and has walked with them for most of her life. Though they are the worst of friends, they are still the only willing companions that she's ever had; the only ones that have refused to leave her no matter how difficult things get.

Relief on the other hand, well that's something she can't cope with.

So she doesn't.

She thinks instead, then, of escaping this house. This hellish situation.

How, she wonders. What will she do? Will she need to kill the sheriff?

Something cuts through her and makes her heart clench painfully, and this, too, is a feeling she doesn't understand well. Surely, since the sheriff is absolutely is planning to hurt her before this is all over, it makes sense to strike first as soon as she's able to. So why then is she bothered by this?

No, she's not, she decides. She's bothered by how Henry will react to such.

That's all.

She certainly could care less about the welfare of the woman who had broken her curse, stolen her child and kidnapped her thereby denying Regina her much-earned and owed vengeance on the woman who had played a primary role in the murders of her mother and her fiancée.

She certainly feels nothing but hatred for Emma Swan. Snow White's daughter. Certainly. Absolutely.

Yes.

So if kill the sheriff she must in order to escape this nightmare, then kill the sheriff she will. She tells herself that she can do this because she's done so many other horrible things so really, what's one more?

Even she's a bit amazed by just how good she's become at being able to lie to herself. Especially when the lies are unbelievable in every single way.

She thinks about other lies told.

She thinks about standing up in front of five hundred well-dressed nobles and saying "I do" to a man whom she'd hated almost from the moment she'd first laid eyes upon him. She thinks about convincing herself that she just needed to survive until she could find a way to bring Daniel back.

She thinks of realizing that she never could.

She thinks of lying on a massive mattress, tears in her eyes as her husband moved above her, his breath hot against her neck, his hands cold and hard.

Fear streaks through her, then and she starts pulling at the cuff again, each yank tearing the skin at her wrist, but not loosening the restraints even a big. Panic sets in and then a loud shuddering sob rips forth from her throat.

And then a scream.

She screams – not for help, but for everything else that's ugly and dark and so terribly damaged and broken within her – until she can't. And then she falls back against the bed once more, no longer moving, just crying silently.

She thinks of being lost.

So very lost.

* * *

"You're still not going to tell me where we are?" Henry asks as the two of them walk down the sidewalk. This town reminds him a lot of Storybrooke; it's sleepy and overcast, cool coastal air flowing down every street.

"Nope," Emma replies with an impish grin. "It's a secret."

"No, it's not," he sighs, pointing up towards a wooden sign that's hanging above one of the quaint little shops. "Haydenport. Home of the best Seagull Burgers in Maine." He wrinkles his nose at this. "Eww. Gross."

She laughs. "Hey, you never know. Maybe they're awesome. Okay, they're probably not, but, well this place might not be a secret, but it is somewhere that is far enough from Storybrooke to be a safe place for your mom."

"You think this will work?" he asks, looking up at her. "She seems so angry."

"She _is_ angry, Henry. She's been angry for a very long time now, and what happened with her own mother, well it made everything that much worse."

"But we _can_ help her, right?"

Frowning a bit at the sudden weight of his expectations, she turns towards him, reaching out to fold her hand around his forearm. "I'm not going to lie to you, Kid; this is going to be very difficult. Your mom on her good days is volatile and dangerous. On her bad days, well, she's something else entirely. Something kind of scary, actually. And right now, these are definitely not good days for her. I don't think she sees what we did for her like you and I do. She thinks we took her away from something she wants to do even if it hurts her to do it. She doesn't see this us as trying to help her."

"But we are!"

"I know, and our goal is for her to eventually realize that, but, Henry, it's not going to happen over night. There are going to be times during this…well whatever the hell this is when all of us going to say things we might not mean. Your mom and I have a habit of pissing each other off pretty good."

"Then don't let her."

"I can't always help myself," Emma admits with a dry chuckle. "She's very good at pushing my buttons. And I'm very good at pushing hers. Maybe all things considered, that could be a good thing in the long run. All I'm saying is that it's going to take time to calm her down, and that's if we're lucky."

"We need to be better than lucky," he shoots back, his jaw set.

She sighs. "Look, more than just about anything in the world, I want to be what you want me to be, Henry. I want to be the person who can make this all better for you, for me, and for Regina, but I'm not perfect. I'm not."

"I don't need you to be perfect. I just need you to be who you are, Emma."

"The Savior?" she asks with a somewhat bitter edge to her voice.

"Yes, but it's not just that. You're the one person who sees my mom as more than just the Evil Queen. Even…even I didn't." His face contorts for a moment, and she thinks back to the conversation earlier that morning in the loft, the one where he took on blame for losing faith in Regina.

She wants to tell him that he's just a kid and shouldn't take this kind of weight on himself, but a sharp look from him stops her cold. He doesn't want to hear excuses right now. He's Regina's son, and thus has no use for flowery statements meant to make him feel better. He wants results.

"Why me?" she asks. "Why am I the person you think can help her?"

He shrugs his shoulders. "You don't give up on anyone even if it's someone you don't like. Everyone else has given up on her. But not you."

"And not you, either. That is why we are here, Henry. Because of you." Emma squeezes his arm, and then gives him a playful push. "Okay? Okay? Okay?" She's just about tickling him now, and the eleven year old in him can't help but laugh entirely too loud. It's music to her ears, heart and soul.

"Okay," he cries out as he finally pushes her away, still giggling. After a moment and several breaths, he glances down the street, towards the tidy row of stores. "So how are we going to do this shopping thing?"

"Well, first we're going to get food and supplies at the grocery store over there, and then we will deal with your mom's clothes. You, uh, wouldn't happen to know what size pants she wears, would you?"

He frowns. "Why would I know that?"

"Right; that's pretty much what I figured," she replies with a dramatic sigh.

"You should have looked when we were back at the house with her."

Emma laughs aloud at this because somehow, she doesn't think Regina – who'd already been furiously accusing her of having some perverted ulterior agenda to the kidnapping – would have taken well to being asked about her clothing sizes. "Yeah, probably not a good idea," she admits.

* * *

Grocery shopping goes well enough.

Well, perhaps that's not exactly the right way to phrase it considering they both browse and buy like they're kids on a sugar high (he at least has the excuse of actually being a child, while she's uncomfortably aware of the fact that she does not). There are entirely too many bags of potato chips and far too many boxes of doughnuts, but Emma tries to tell herself that it's all right because she remembered to buy bacon and eggs and milk.

For drinks, she buys soda, beer and wine and then tries to make it all better by grabbing some V8 juice because it's healthy and good for kids.

Even Henry gives her a mocking look for this thought. The V8 stays, though.

Things don't get really squirrely, however, until the two of them are standing in front of a rack of cotton and polyester button-up shirts at the women's clothing store that's tucked tightly in-between a men's shoe shop and the little German bakery that specializes in muffins (Emma buys a few blueberry ones, the ones with the crunchie-munchies on top).

"She likes black," Henry says finally, gesturing at a few such shirts. "And she likes silk. But I don't see any silk here. There are some…eww, polyester."

"Yeah. Unless we both want to end up dead, I think we're going to stay away from that. But, she's is going to have to make do with cotton," Emma answers, and then winces a bit and once again kicks herself for not having the presence of mind to pack a bag for Regina before they'd left the house.

Well, what's done is done and now there are cotton shirts to look at. For example, there's a bright pink one makes her contort her face like she's about to throw up, and oh that green one. God, it's going to be a fucking miracle if Regina doesn't find to hurt both of them seriously for this.

Well, she won't hurt Henry, Emma assures herself. And yeah, sometimes maybe you do have to hide behind your eleven-year-old son. Bravely so.

"So we'll get her a few black shirts," Emma says as she pulls one of them of the rack and gives it a look. It's plain and has a nice cut to it, but it's terribly ordinary, which isn't likely to please the former queen one bit. Then again, she reminds herself, this is something of a magic/anger rehab and usually people in recovery don't get to wander around wearing designer labels.

Which is convenient considering this town doesn't actually have anything even vaguely designer in it. If she'd thought Storybrooke to be small and sleepy, Haydenport is downright comatose.

And that includes its commerce, which appears to be stuck in the idea that everyone should wear denim, flannel and fleece.

Completely fine by her, but for Regina…yeah.

"Then what?" Henry prompts, reaching out to touch one of the polyester shirts. He scowls on contact, and immediately pulls his hand away.

"Black slacks?" She suggests, knowing that she sounds uncertain about this. "If we can manage to find a pair that don't look more like cargo pants."

"They all do," Henry notes, frowning as he peruses a stack of pants.

"Of course they do. Okay, so we'll figure that out in a minute. What other colors does your mom like besides black?"

"She wears red a lot."

"Red. Good. That's good. What shade of red does she like?"

He frowns. "I'm a boy, Emma. Red is red."

"You lived with her for almost eleven years." It's almost a whine.

"Still a boy."

"Yeah, I'm getting that. Okay, so we'll grab some pants, and maybe a few dark colored shirts. Probably need to get her something warm like a sweatshirt, too. Have you ever actually seen your mom wear a sweatshirt?"

"No."

"What about jeans?"

"Never."

"Flannel?"

"Are you kidding me?"

"Right. Well, I guess there's a first time for everything."

He nods, and then wrinkles his nose as a thought comes flying into his head. He gestures over towards where the bras are. "What about under…stuff?"

"Under…stuff? Oh, you mean underwear," And suddenly Emma is as radically uncomfortable about all of this as Henry is.

"Yeah."

Emma sighs. "I guess I can take care of that. You go pick out some shirts for her. Go with mediums. And that dark red one, I like that color."

"It'll look good on her," Henry agrees, seeming grateful for the assignment.

Emma, on the other hand, gets the unenviable task of trying to figure out just what the hell an Evil Queen likes to wear beneath her clothes.

* * *

Regina hears the car pull up, and though she's utterly and completely exhausted and every part of her body now hurts thanks to her panicked and ultimately fruitless escape attempts, her pride forces her to sit up on the bed, and straighten her body out as much as she can manage. She hears her back pop and grind in protest, but through sheer force of will, she pushes a cold smile across her face. It doesn't meet her eyes, but it doesn't need to.

"We're home," Emma calls out in an obnoxiously cheerful voice as the front door to the house swings opens. Regina hears the sound of two people entering, something getting dropped, and then someone – presumably Henry – racing back out. She assumes he's bringing in groceries.

Funny, she muses with more than a slight hint of bitterness, how much he'd always detested doing that back in Storybrooke; she'd always had to nudge, bully and harass him to get his help. Now, though, for Emma…

She bites these thoughts back; she won't think badly of Henry.

"How was your time alone, Your Majesty?" Emma jokes as she steps into the room carrying two large brown bags full of clothing. Almost immediately, upon entering and seeing the slight damage to the metal bedframe (two hours of pulling had bent the little bastard thing at least), and then the bloody streaks running down Regina's arm, her eyes go wide. She drops the bags and surges forward. "Jesus, what the hell did you do to yourself?"

"Well, He did bleed from His hands," Regina quips, her dark eyes dancing maliciously. "And I am a higher power so I suppose that's appropriate."

"You're a higher idiot is what you are," Emma growls back, her lip curling up into a furious snarl. A voice in the back of her mind warns her that these are exactly the kinds of confrontations that she should be avoiding, but the part of her that Regina absolutely knows how to antagonize and annoy pushes her on. "I told you not to pull on the cuffs. Why won't you ever listen?"

Regina laughs at this, the derision and disgust in the sound quite clear to Emma's ears. "Why would I ever listen to my kidnapper? Have you truly never watched a Lifetime movie, Sheriff? My job is to escape my captor, dear, not wait around for them to do heinous and wanton things to me."

"Are you fucking serious?"

"Your language skills are, as always, atrocious; however, yes, Miss Swan, I am quite serious. You might even say deadly serious."

"Yeah, well, you're not some goddamned hero trying to escape…you know what, never mind. I'm not playing this game with you tonight. I'm not."

"Then what game are we going to play?"

Emma forces herself to take a deep breath, placing her hands out in front of her body as if to steady herself. Finally, between teeth grit tightly in frustration, "One that involves me cleaning up your self-inflicted injuries and then shoving alcohol down your throat until you stop being an ass."

Well, that wasn't what she'd meant to say at all, she realizes. Dammit.

Regina, however, seems darkly amused by her words. She chuckles and replies with, "That might just be the worst plan I've ever heard, and considering it's you, Miss Swan, that's truly saying something indeed."

"Fantastic; now I'm getting criticized by the lunatic that I'm trying to help."

"Word of advice, dear," Regina offers dryly. "Continuously calling me a lunatic might not be as helpful to my so-called mental recovery as you might think. It might even trigger a few slightly homicidal feelings."

"Okay, okay. I'm going to go get a first aide kit and you're going to shut the hell up for a few seconds. That's what we're going to do here."

"I don't take orders from anyone. Especially not you."

Emma bites down hard on her lip, and then turns and exits the room.

Were Henry not moving in and out of the house with his arms full of groceries, Emma's certain that she'd throw the mother of all tantrums right about now. It'd involve some serious kicking, punching and screaming.

But then there's Henry racing back in, dropping another bag, and running back outside like the good son trying to do whatever is needed to assist in one mother helping the other one through a "bad" time.

Which means it's her job to do right by him.

Even if the other mother is irritating the shit out of her right about now.

First aide kit finally in hand, Emma sits beside Regina, who is still cuffed to the bed. She's on the mattress next to her, her legs folded under her. She's focusing on the head wound first, but the brunette sure as hell isn't making it easy with all the moving around, grunting and twitching that she's doing.

Oh and there's swearing and cursing, too.

Apparently former Evil Queens don't have very clean mouths.

She blinks at the not quite appropriate implications of this, and then scolds herself for letting her mind stray to…strange places that make no sense.

Oh it's been a long day. Yeah, that's it.

"Would you hold still, please," Emma finally hisses because she's had just about enough of this, and she hasn't even gotten to the wrist yet. She tries to dab at the forehead wound again, but once more, Regina shifts.

"No," Regina answers defiantly.

"What are you? Five?" Emma snaps back. "I get it, you are seriously pissed off about all of this. Well guess what, Regina, so am I. Instead of being back at home in my own bed, I'm here with you trying to help keep you sane."

"I didn't ask for your help," comes the angry response. "Why don't you get that? I don't need your help and I sure as hell don't want it. So why don't we both save ourselves a lot of time and trouble. Let me go."

"You mean so you can return to Storybrooke and try to kill my mom again?"

"She killed mine!" Regina's eyes are shining darkly, furiously, but there are also tears in them, a sign of the ragged emotions running through her.

"That doesn't justify another murder."

"Really? And if I had murdered your mother, if I had forced you to kill her, would you think the same or would you want my blood in retribution."

"I don't know."

Regina blinks in surprise at the unexpected answer. She'd been anticipating the typical hero nonsense of how vengeance is always wrong, but then perhaps she'd forgotten the most interesting thing of all about Emma Swan: no matter her lineage, she's still unpredictable and more gray than white.

"Unchain me," Regina says finally, thickly, her hands trembling more than a little bit. "I don't like being restrained." She could say more; she could explain exactly why she panics at the even the idea of being tied up or held down, but she's hidden such nightmares away for so long now that even if she wanted to speak of them (and she doesn't), she's not sure she could.

Emma studies the older woman's face, seeing both fear and exhaustion etched deep into the lines there. Regina is still beautiful, but almost sadly so. And there's something about this whole situation with the cuffs that feels important, but Emma knows enough to understand that those kinds of answer won't be forthcoming until trust is established. So instead, "Are you going to try to hit me as soon as I do? Are you going to try to run again?"

"I have a hand free now, Miss Swan," Regina reminds her before wiggling around said hand (her weaker one, unfortunately). "If I wanted to hit you, I'd have already tried to do so. The hand that's restrained is – as you can well see – rather mangled right now. As for running, well, I think we both know that I couldn't get too far even I wanted to in my condition. Release me."

"And you won't try to run away?" Emma asks once more.

"Not tonight." It's as much of a promise as she's willing to make. Tomorrow – when perhaps she feels better - is a different matter all together.

"Fine." Emma reaches into her pocket and extracts a key. A moment later, she's pulling the cuff off and gingerly lowering the wounded hand down. A close inspection of the damaged appendage shows several ugly bright red gashes and tears and a whole swath of skin that has been rather viciously chaffed away. "Nice work," she murmurs almost absently.

"I don't like being restrained," Regina says again, snatching her wrist away and cradling it against her chest with her uninjured hand.

"So noted. So how about this: if you promise to give this thing we're doing a chance, I promise not to restrain you again. Can we make that deal?"

"Give what a chance? You've never told me what _this_ is beyond saying that you're going to try to help me so that I don't kill your insipid mother."

"This is therapy 101," Emma answers with an almost endearingly awkward smile. "Also known as Magic and Anger rehab for former Evil Queens."

"Excuse me?"

"In this world, sometimes when someone has an addiction that they can't beat on their own or with 12 step programs, we can send them to an in-patient rehab center so that they can get more intense treatment."

Regina's shoulders square at this, and her chin lifts. "I am not –"

Emma holds up her hand. "You may not view yourself as an addict because of the whole elemental magic thing. I get it, magic is part of who you are, but even you have to admit that you use it for some pretty awful things."

"I use it to protect myself."

"You use it to destroy yourself and everyone around you."

"This is ridiculous."

"Maybe it is or maybe it'll actually work if you give it a chance."

"How could it possibly? You're not a therapist, Emma," Regina snaps back, and neither comments on the familiar use of the blonde's name. "At least I gave Archie a degree with the curse. You? You're just a screwed up woman who has made as many mistakes as I have. Why should I listen to you?"

"Precisely because I _have_ made as many mistakes as you have. I know exactly what it's like to be alone and angry and completely fucked up beyond all reason, Regina. Everyone in this world – everyone in Storybrooke - thinks that because I'm the Savior that all I'm capable of is white light and happiness, but we both know better. I've done things I'm not proud of."

"So is this my therapy or yours, Sheriff?"

"Maybe it's both," Emma confesses with a sigh. "Look, I know you don't trust me. Well, I don't trust you, either. I do trust our son, though, and I trust that he believes in both of us, and wants both of us in his life. So, how about it? How about that deal? You don't run and I don't cuff you. Okay?"

"I have no free will, then?"

"Not to return to Storybrooke so you can burn the town down."

"And what if all I wanted to do was walk away from everything? If all I wanted to do was disappear into this world of yours and never be heard from again? Would you stop me if I tried to do that?"

"Would you actually do that?"

"Some days, I think about it," Regina admits.

"Yeah, well, then, that's just another thing we have in common," Emma answers with a tired sigh. "Will you please let me clean up your wrist?"

"Only because I can't do it myself."

"I'll take that a yes." Emma reaches for the wrist and begins to dab at it with an alcohol pad, gently trying to clean the blood away. After a moment she says, "For what it's worth, I'd hope you wouldn't leave Henry like that."

"Even if it would make his life easier?" Regina asks; gritting her teeth to keep her from crying out as Emma pushes down harder, trying to get the alcohol pad into the uglier part of one of the cuts. The blonde offers her a smile that seems vaguely apologetic, but keeps on digging in.

"Not matter what you might think, abandonment is never easier for anyone," Emma tells her, her head down.

"Again, Miss Swan, whose therapy is this?"

Emma lifts her head up, and the two women lock eyes, holding the intense gaze for a long moment before Emma shakes her head, looks back down Regina's damaged wrist and mutters, "I hope you like red wine."


	5. 4

A/N: Again, thank you for the comments, suggestions and general encouragement. It's very much appreciated.

Apparently, this isn't going to be quite the short story I'd expected. As always, I let the voices in my head direct the tale and they're requesting something a bit longer.

Some salty language and attempted murder within.

Enjoy.

* * *

"Here," Emma drawls as she steps out onto the deck. She's holding a bottle of ten-dollar red wine and two already full steins – plastic not glass, Regina notes with annoyance – in her hands. She offers one of them to Regina.

"Are there sleeping pills in there?" the former mayor asks with a lifted eyebrow. She's pulling her red blazer tight around her to shield against the fierce coastal night air. Emma briefly considers returning to grab one of the hoodies that she and Henry had purchased for Regina, but that's a fight for later.

"No," Emma answers dryly. "I'm not you; I don't drug or poison things."

"Touché," Regina chuckles before taking the plastic stein, and holding it up so that it can catch the moonlight off the slightly clouded up material. She swirls the red liquid around within, enjoying the fluidity of it . "I'm wounded that you don't trust me enough to give me actual glass."

"No, you're not," Emma laughs as she sits down onto the patio chair next to the identical one that Regina is sitting in. Their positions on the deck afford them both a gorgeous and unobstructed view of the ocean and the rising and crashing tides down by the dark shoreline. "It's been a long day, and I know damned well that you don't want to be here. I'm not about to give you a weapon to use on me."

"I'm mildly impressed," Regina says, her eyes on the water.

"Thanks. I think," Emma shoots back, following Regina's eyes to the darkened waterline. For a few long minutes, all they do is watch the tide come and go.

It's about ten at night. Henry's been in bed for the last hour or so, having finally crashed almost face-first into the oversized pillows of the couch in the living room thanks to the insanely long day that he'd been a crucial part of. Working together to carry his not-quite-as-light-as-it-used-to-be body to the king-sized bed in the room that the boy had chosen for himself had been the only time all night that the two women had managed not to snark and snap at each other. That time has now passed, apparently.

And for good reason, too, Regina thinks. Emma's right; she doesn't want to be here. She doesn't need to be here. She needs to be back taking care of Snow. Avenging her mother's murder. Evening the scales.

Anywhere but here with this damned woman.

Frowning more than a little bit, Regina slowly lifts the plastic wine glass up with her uninjured hand and brings it to her mouth. The fluid inside is a deep almost blood red, but the smell is at best quite stale and bland, and she really isn't expecting much from the taste. The bottle the alcohol had come in had been wearing a label of some vineyard from California.

"Cheers," she hears Emma say from beside her. She spares a quick glance over at the sheriff, who is holding up a plastic glass of her own. She'd never picked the blonde for much of a wine drinker, and perhaps were she not so annoyed by this whole situation, she might even be touched by the gesture of picking this form of alcohol as opposed to something like beer or ale.

Right now, though, she's thinking it'd been a good decision on Emma's part to have the steins be made of plastic as opposed to glass because had they been made of the latter, she would have already broken it into tiny sharp shards and put it against the sheriff's throat. Perhaps even drawn some blood. Maybe even killed the idiotic presumptuous arrogant woman.

Yes. She might have done that, indeed, Regina tells herself with a smirk.

"Something funny?" Emma asks just before the stein gets to her lips.

"Nothing that would amuse you, I'm sure," Regina answers before taking a sip. Almost immediately, she scowls. "Where the hell did you find this?"

"Grocery story. Not a lot of options," Emma shrugs before taking a quick not exactly lady like swig of her own. It occurs to Regina as she watches Emma knock back the wine that this is a woman far more used to whiskey and vodka. It's really no surprise that she hasn't a clue how to pick out wine.

"You couldn't have managed to grab a few bottles from my wine cellar while you were kidnapping me?" Regina queries, eyebrow lifted. Her tone makes the question sound almost humorous, but Emma knows better; this isn't exactly a trap, but nor is it an opening for further deep conversation.

"Sorry, was preoccupied with ensuring you couldn't turn me into a toad."

"You needn't have worried, Sheriff; I'm not a fan of turning people into toads," the brunette assures her with a low throaty chuckle. "A rabbit on the other hand, that might have been a distinct possibility. I know your wolf friend likes to eat those during her time of the month."

"That's actually pretty damned disturbing, Regina. And considering it's you, that's saying something," the blonde snaps back, looking slightly queasy.

"Touch a nerve did I, Miss Swan?"

"No, you're just being a jerk."

"Well, did you actually expect me to be welcoming of this little ill-conceived adventure of yours?" Regina replies with a raised eyebrow. "Because if you did, then you really are more like your idiot parents than I'd realized."

"Does everything go back to them?"

"Almost every tragedy that I've ever experienced does," the brunette woman answers, her tone suddenly strangely emotionless. She brings the wine glass back to her lips and takes another sip, but this time, she doesn't comment on the taste, just stares straight ahead towards the rushing and rising water. There's an odd blankness to her dark eyes as she gazes out, a practiced form of apathy that doesn't ring true.

Not anymore anyway.

"Yeah, well, I'm not here because of them."

"Aren't you? This is all about keeping Snow White safe."

"It's not."

"Then what is it about?" Regina snaps, turning her head. "Henry?"

Emma pauses for a moment, considering her response. She could tell the truth, she could tell Regina that the kidnapping had all been Henry's idea, but something inside of her suggests that perhaps what Regina really needs right now is someone else besides her son on her side. And so she lies.

"I want to help you."

"So you've said ad nauseam. And my question – still unanswered, I might add - remains the same. Why? Why would you want to help me? What's in it for you? And don't you dare lie to me and say nothing because we both know the world doesn't work that way for people like us."

"People like us. What does that mean, Regina? Who are people like _us_?"

The brunette opens her mouth to answer, but suddenly feeling as though she's already said and exposed too much, she clamps it shut again.

"Right. Well, whoever _we_ are, I think we can help each other."

The sentiment is so nauseatingly hopeful – and so utterly un-Emma like- that the words actually make Regina's teeth grind and ache. "Are you being intentionally obtuse, Miss Swan or are you just trying to test my patience enough to see if I can find a way to my magic work even out here."

"Well, if you can, I'm pretty fucked, aren't I?" the blonde chuckles.

Regina smiles at this, and it's a cold enough one to make Emma want to squirm in her seat a bit. Want being the operative word because she's never been good at letting others see her weaknesses. Even – especially - Regina.

"Yeah," Emma sighs. She glances at Regina's glass, noticing that it's empty. She considers making a comment about how the brunette had powered through the admittedly foul tasting alcohol, but instead goes with, "Refill?"

"Trying to get me drunk, are you?"

"Absolutely. Maybe you'll knock out like a light and I won't have to worry about whether or not you'll be here in the morning," Emma replies, shrugging her shoulders in the infuriatingly nonchalant way that only she can. She lifts the bottle up again in offer. "So, how about it? Sleep city?"

"Mm. I can handle my liquor." She lifts up the stein and lets Emma refill it.

"I imagine you can," Emma says, intentionally attempting to keep her tone somewhat light. "Forty years of drinking will do that."

"Are you calling me an alcoholic?"

"Well, you do make the stiffest drinks in town," the blonde reminds her, the both of them taking a moment to think about a man long buried now.

Regina shrugs at this. She stares back out at the beach, watching as the tide brings in several large branches and deposits them on the shore. When the water rushes back towards the ocean, it leaves the debris behind.

Unwanted. Unneeded.

She takes another sip. And then another.

Finally, "What do you think is going to happen here at this fancy little beach house of yours, Miss Swan? Do you think we'll chat a bit, maybe even cry some and then I won't want your mother dead? Is that how you think things will go? Because frankly, dear, despite all of your obnoxious habits and characters traits, one I have never attributed to you is gross naivety."

"Like I said, Regina, we're not here because of my mother. At least not just because of her. We're also here because of yours and what she did to you."

If the stein were glass, it'd have shattered in Regina's hand. Instead, her fingers tighten around the stem, knuckles white. "She did nothing to me."

"That's bullshit and we both know it."

"This discussion is over," the former mayor snaps, tears stinging her eyes.

"Okay, then how about we try a different one. Tell me about one happy memory from your childhood. Just one," Emma suggests.

"To what end? Are you just throwing darts at a wall now? Could you have maybe read a book about how therapy before starting this fiasco?"

Emma clenches her fists and then releases them. "For the sake of conversation," she grits out. "You know, to try to be civil with each other."

"And if I wish not to be civil and converse with you?"

"Your choice completely, but I'll tell you mine if you'll tell me yours."

"How very juvenile."

"If you say so," Emma answers almost lazily. "Or if you want, we can both just crash out for the night and try to do this all again in the morning."

"You really do believe that you'll wear me down, don't you?"

"You of all people know that I'm stubborn like that," Emma admits with a low chuckle. When she sees Regina shrugs her shoulders in admission of this, she pushes onwards, "So, come on, best childhood memory?"

"I think not," Regina answers stiffly, and there's something in her eyes that says that it's about more than just being bullheaded. Maybe it's about wondering if there's a memory that exists within her troubled and tormented mind that isn't somehow tainted by all of the horrors of her past.

Emma nods her head, and if she's a little bit relieved, she doesn't say as much. If she's a bit thankful not to have to speak of her own tragedy and sadness tainted childhood memories, well that's something she keeps to herself. For now, at least. She knows this conversation will come up again.

Because part of therapy is repeating themes and consistency.

And the other part is all about working out the pain.

It's too early for that, though, and though she's not sorry to have started the ball rolling on this…fiasco, she'd known from the very beginning that the chance of early success would be limited and even unlikely.

Regina has to accept the need for help first. She's not there yet.

"Well, it's a nice place to hang out for awhile, anyway," Emma says after a few long minutes of silence have passed. "This house, I mean."

"Certainly beyond your means," Regina comments and the words are meant to be cruel and dismissive, but she sounds so very tired. Enough so that the comment is more a scratch than a bite, and Emma barely feels the pain.

"Absolutely," the blonde concurs. "Let's just say that I once helped out someone who has bank accounts that make yours look…pathetic."

Regina snorts at this.

"No, seriously; the guy who owns this place – and about seven others just like it up and down the coast - is the very definition of filthy rich."

"Based on the lovely and decidedly non bacheloresque décor of this house, I'm guessing your 'friend' is married. Former lover, I presume, then?"

Emma purses her lips, but the slight ticking in her jaw gives away her shame.

"Ah. And is allowing us to stay in this house for however long you plan to continue this ridiculous stunt some kind of blackmail associated repayment for you having kept your silence about this tawdry affair of yours?" She doesn't wait for a reply that she knows isn't coming before adding on in a satisfied tone, "Well, at least I understand where the filthy part comes in."

"I think that's the second time today that you've called me a whore."

"You certainly seem to make the kind of bad choices that justify such a term, dear. Rumple's worthless deviant of a son and your married friend."

Emma doesn't reply. Anything she would say would be defensive and angry, and she has to be the bigger person because she knows exactly what Regina is doing here. The former mayor is simply trying to push her away. Make her give up and walk away as everyone else in Regina's life has always done.

Not going to happen no matter how much her legs twitch to move.

Regina, however, takes the silence as admission of a direct hit having been scored upon the blonde sheriff's ego. She nods her head, grinning coldly. "And there we go. Once again, it seems as though you're the one who needs therapy to sort through your myriad of issues, Miss Swan, not me."

"Whatever you say, Regina. Either way, we're going to be here awhile."

"And if I never agree to cooperate to your ridiculous therapy nonsense?"

"How many different ways do you have to call this plan of mine terrible?"

"I actually have above a seventh grade vocabulary so quite a few."

"Well, "I'm sure we'll have more than enough time to get through all of them" Emma retorts. "And if you insist on not working with me, things could get pretty damned boring around here pretty damned fast."

"I've spent the last several months practically sealed away in my mansion, Miss Swan; I understand boredom far better than you can imagine. If you think that I'll get restless and just start talking, you'll be waiting awhile."

"Maybe, but you know what I really think, Regina?"

"Oh, this should be delightful. Go on; please, tell me what you're thinking."

Emma smiles thinly at the obvious mockery, but doesn't let it throw her off course. Not when this matters so much. "What I think is that there's a part of you – maybe even a big part – that actually welcomes having someone to talk to. I think if you'd actually let down your guard a little bit and realize that I have no ulterior motive to helping you besides _wanting_ to help you –"

"You mean wanting to keep your mother alive."

"Fine, if it means so damned much to you to have me say it, I'll admit I'd very much prefer you not go on a murderous rampage, but if that was all I wanted, do you really think I'd be putting my own life on hold for you? Do you really think I'd have brought Henry here if that was it?"

Regina swallows, but doesn't bother replying because honestly, she has no good answer for why the sheriff is doing what she's doing.

It frankly makes not a damned bit of sense.

"Exactly," Emma nods. "Regina, back in Storybrooke, you were a badass and pretty much no one could take you down, but out here, well I know this world, and if I wanted you to disappear, I could make that happen."

"Is that a threat?" Regina demands, straightening up in her chair. Her fingers instinctually flex even though there's no magic within them.

Emma blows out air between her teeth. "No, it's me trying to convince you that the reason we're here is honestly because…"

"I'm tired," Regina interrupts suddenly, because she really is worn out, and she has no desire to hear any more about this whole therapy nonsense. She's not interested in being saved from herself. There's only one thing she wants right now and that's to find a way out of this idiotic situation.

"Okay, fine. We can talk more tomorrow."

"I think I liked you a whole lot better before you were a Charming," Regina snarls, her tone sharply derisive. "You didn't think everything in the world could be a fixed with a conversation and a hug."

"I still don't," Emma assures her. "But I do know that people like _us_, Regina, get to where we are because we don't have anyone willing to let us be angry without condemning us for it. You're pissed at everyone and everything, I get it; you have the right to be. That doesn't mean you let go and let everything burn down around you. There are better ways."

"And you of all people know those ways?"

"I've never cursed a whole land to Maine or ripped out hearts, but I'm also no saint. I have some experience with fucking up pretty badly. I also have some experience with managing to find my way to the right decision, too."

"Lucky me," comes the dryly unimpressed response. Regina stands, then, wincing as she puts her injured hand out to steady her after two glasses of wine. Without commenting on the pain that streaks through her, she turns and heads inside. After a moment and one last glance at the ocean, Emma follows after.

* * *

This is the moment where Emma knows that she's going to find out for damned sure if there's any magic left within the Evil Queen. Sure, the line of Storybrooke is supposed to be the cutoff, and Gold certainly hadn't been able to pull anything forth, but Hook had gotten his ship to New York so…

And besides, none of that compares to trying to make Regina Mills sleep in flannel pants and a tee shirt. This is a woman who wears silk. It's optimistic to assume that once Regina sees the bag of rather pedestrian clothes that Henry and Emma had picked out for her, she won't lose her temper.

"What's this?" Regina asks as Emma drops two bags in front of her. The former queen is sitting on the bed, her wounded hand resting in her lap. There's blood on the bandages suggesting that the dressings need to be refreshed, but well, first things first.

"I forgot to pack for you. Clothes, I mean."

"You're serious?"

"Unfortunately," Emma admits with a small awkward smile. It's the kind of ridiculous look that only works on this woman, and for the life of her, Regina can't figure out why she's not already trying to rip the blonde's face off. "On the upside," Emma continues. "That means I didn't go through your drawers."

"And on the downside?"

"Henry and I grabbed some things for you at the local department store or whatever it is." She motions to the bags. "Those. Our options were pretty limited."

"Is there a reason you mentioned Henry assisting you besides perhaps a poor attempt to try to hide behind an eleven year old boy?"

"Not really, no," Emma admits. Normally, she'd chafe at the accusation, but it's terribly accurate right now because in that bag is denim and fleece and flannel and cotton and yeah, so maybe she's a coward right about now.

Regina spares her one more decidedly cutting look, and then reaches forward and dips her hand into the closest bag to her. Slowly, with clear disgust on her face, she starts extracting the clothing article by article. There are a couple of semi nice darkly colored blouses and a pair of completely ordinary black slacks, but beyond that, it's almost all the kind of stuff that Emma would wear.

Emma, not Regina.

"Sorry," she says simply.

"You actually expect me to wear these things? They look like something a vagrant would wear." She glances up at Emma and then adds, "No offense, dear."

"Of course not, but you know what? If you're so gung-ho on it, you could always wear what you have on now…indefinitely or you could take the stick out of your ass and remember that are on the beach and you have been freezing your ass off for the last hour. That sweatshirt that you're looking at like it's a dirty rag would have kept you warm and those flannel pants will certainly do that tonight. So yes, I expect you to wear them. Or don't. I don't really care."

"You find this amusing, don't you?"

"If by amusing, you mean terrifying, then yes, I guess I do." After a moment - and realizing that she'd done exactly what she's spent most of the night trying not to do and lost her temper with the former mayor - she sighs. "I swear, Regina, this was an honest mistake on my part and not some attempt to humiliate you. I wanted to get you out of town before you woke back up and I screwed the pooch. I am sorry for this."

"Screwed the pooch. Well, I certainly couldn't have said it better myself," Regina comments, unwilling to give even an inch as her eyes continue to roam across the coarse fabric of the flannel pants that she's now holding in her uninjured hand. They're purple and black, and definitely oversized. She'll practically swim in them, she's certain.

"They'll look good on you," Emma assures her.

"About as good as any of your too-tight rags look on you." Now she's just being mean to be it, and even she knows this. What's worse is that she's so irritated that she's even lost her ability to be devastatingly sharp with her insults. They're mostly just clumsy attempts to piss off the sheriff.

Emma chuckles in response, her lip quirking into an odd satisfied smile. This kind of banter she knows and is somewhat comfortable with. "And there it is. Knew it was coming eventually. So, are you going to wear the clothes your son picked out for you or are you going to sleep in slacks?"

"Using Henry again. You really are a coward," Regina snaps back.

"I'm a well-meaning coward," Emma replies, the infuriating grin growing.

Regina doesn't seem to find the humor implied in the statement. Instead, she shakes her head. "Live as long as I have, Miss Swan, and you'll realize that there's no such thing as a well-meaning anything."

"I hope that's not true," Emma answers softly, becoming quite serious.

"It is. But yes, I suppose I'll wear these…things for tonight. I don't wish to freeze before I figure a way to end this charade."

"That's the spirit," Emma responds; relieved that the blowout that she'd been expecting has since been downgraded to a bout of royal pissiness instead. Apparently, there's something to be said for exhausting someone before you tell them news that would normally make them blow their top.

"Now, unless you plan to talk my ear off, are you planning to shower with me or am I allowed to do that on my own?" Regina asks suddenly, interrupting her thoughts. "Because thanks to your tackle in the woods, I have dirt in rather interesting places."

"You ran," Emma says simply. "But no, I wasn't planning on doing it…you know what, never mind." Seeming somewhat oddly flustered, she waves her hand in the air. "Go ahead and shower. Just yell for me me when you're done so I can clean up your wrist one more time before we sack out for the night."

"I don't imagine if I told you I could do it myself that you'd listen."

"You're more than welcome to try," Emma sighs. "I'm done fighting with you for tonight so if you'd like to rewrap your wrist on your own, have at it."

And with that, she steps away from the door and exits the room, shutting the door behind her.

Once she's gone, the former mayor dips her uninjured hand back into the second brown paper bag and extracts a plastic package.

Underwear.

She scowls.

They're white and cotton and she's pretty damned sure that they sell five of these for three dollars down at the store at the end of Main Street back in Storybrooke. Not that she'd ever have been caught dead wearing them.

And yet now, unless she plans to wear and wash the ones she currently has on indefinitely….

She grinds her teeth, takes a breath, and reminds herself that she just needs to stay calm and figure a way out of this ridiculous mess.

Whatever it takes.

* * *

It's around two in the morning when she wakes up shaking from a dream that leaves her mind even before her eyes open. Her body is weary, and just about everything part of her hurts. Her head is pounding, and her wrist is burning with pain. She lifts it up and looks at the bandages. They're sloppy and once again bloodstained. She thinks for a moment that she should have let Emma assist her, but then forcefully shoves the unwanted thought away.

She sits up in the bed, and winces as her tired muscles protest. After a moment, she's able to stand. She makes her way to the bathroom, does what needs to be done and then steps over to the sink to wash her hands.

A look up and into the mirror makes her stop cold. What she sees there is the face of a broken and lost woman who has badly lost her path. She sees a fallen queen who exists on little more than the toxic fumes of her anger and pain. Her eyes are dark and hollow, her skin waxy and unusually pale. The cut on her forehead, cleaned out but left open to the air is red and bold.

It's this place, she tells herself. It's being removed from her magic by force. It's having her right to vengeance stripped away from her against her will.

It's Emma Swan.

She feels red-hot corrosive rage tear through her like a surging fire through a forest full of dry trees. Her fists clench as she plays the last few hours of humiliation back in her mind. It's not the ridiculous clothing – though she's annoyed to see the reflection of herself wearing the oversized flannel pants and a gray tee shirt – it's the arrogance of the blonde to believe that she has the right to refuse a queen her freedom.

Bad enough that the woman has already stolen Henry away, worse that she'd destroyed the curse, but stepping in the way of vengeance?

A step too far.

Regina tells herself that she doesn't want to be saved, couldn't be saved anyway. She wants to make Snow pay and then whatever comes after that does as it will. And if it is death, then so be it. It'll all be worth it.

For Daniel. For Father. For Mother.

She has a right to this.

If she had magic within her right now, her eyes would be glowing beneath the weight of her anger. She can feel it streaking through her heart, gripping and pulling and devouring. The voice in her head that begs her to not to give into these feelings is shoved backwards, denied once more.

She thinks of an innocent young woman pulling a child from a racing horse.

She thinks of sweet Daniel falling to the ground, her eyes forever staring. (The voice in her head asks where Cora is in this scene, but she ignores it).

She thinks of Snow handing her a box with a heart. Mother's heart.

The fury grows. She looks around at her magic-free prison and decides that it will hold her no more. She's leaving, she decides. Tonight. Right now.

But not before she ensures that no one will ever again stand between her and her right to vengeance. Never again will she be denied it.

She steps out of the bathroom and walks to the closed door of the bedroom. After Emma had exited the room earlier in the evening, Regina had waited for the lock to be engaged, her heart pounding in her chest as she'd remembered many nights of Leopold imprisoning her within her bed chambers in order to keep her from going out into the world.

Those nights had led to her mental destruction, and eventually his death.

This time, though, the sound of a door being locked never comes.

Stupid silly woman, she'd thought at the time. She thinks that now, too.

Regina opens the door slowly, and thankfully it neither creaks nor squeaks. She steps out into the hallway, coming up to one of the rooms. A look inside and she sees Henry sleeping soundly, curled onto his side, face in the pillow.

Good.

She doesn't want him awake for this. She stalls for a moment, wondering how she will ever explain this to him. How will he ever forgive her for it?

She can make him, she tells herself. There are ways.

That her heart aches and breaks at even the thought of forcing his love is something makes herself ignore as she closes the bedroom door.

She walks into the kitchen and looks around. It takes her only a few minutes to find the knives, and then only a moment later to find one big enough and sharp enough to do its duty quickly. She hates Emma – she does, she insists – but she sees no reason to make the woman suffer more than is necessary.

Strange considering all that the woman has taken from her. Such mercy is certainly unwarranted. Emma deserves nothing but pain for all that she has destroyed. She's Snow daughter. That alone is reason to suffer. And to die.

So why then does she insist on providing the blonde sheriff a quick death?

She chooses to let these troubled thoughts slide away. They don't matter.

She makes her way back down the hall and steps into Emma's room. The door had been left open; Emma's spent too long on guard and hadn't wanted anything standing between her and something unexpected.

Something like this.

She's sleeping now, and as Regina approaches the bed, knife lifted, Emma does no more than roll from her side to her back, eyes still closed. Her chest is rising and falling gently, seemingly easy dreams rocking her back and forth. Not that Regina would know the feeling; she has few of these.

She suspects that she'll have even fewer after tonight.

She licks her lips and steps closer, her hand tightening on the handle. She wonders when she'd become this person – someone who murdered like this.

She reminds herself that she has been this kind of darkness for a very long time. It's why she's not worth saving. It's why she can never be saved.

She wonders, then, why she's not doing anything to end this. She's just standing above Emma. Standing. Waiting. Doing nothing.

The dark voices inside of her – the anger – rages at her, demands blood.

She closes her eyes. She opens them again.

Emma sleeps on.

One voice tells reminds her of what this woman has taken from her and tells her to stop acting like a child. The voice is familiar and there was a time when she would have called it mother and shrunk away from it.

Another voice reminds her of all that she has taken from Emma. It reminds her of the life that the blonde has led. Reminds her of the pain she's suffered and the very many ways that they are more alike than unalike.

_People like us._

Her wounded hand trembles. She lifts it and puts it over her mouth just before a sob breaks forth. She staggers backwards and hits the wall, dropping to her butt a few moments later, knife still grasped tight.

_Whoever we are, we can help each other._

She thinks of dragon-infested clocktowers, righteously furious headhunting mobs, screaming soul-sucking wraiths and wells with painful green magic.

She thinks of Henry and his arms around her.

And then she looks up and sees Emma watching her. Sleepy, but aware.

Apparently awake the whole time.

Her eyes are bright and green, and full of understanding and empathy instead of anger and hatred. Regina sees no pity reflected back at her from the blonde, and that's just about enough to make her stomach seize violently at the thought of what she'd just been about to do.

The knife falls from Regina's hand, hitting the carpet with a soft thud.

"Are you ready now?" Emma asks, her voice so soft.

Regina closes her eyes, tears streaking down her face. When she speaks, the single word she says is almost inaudible, little more than a gasped whisper.

"Yes."

**TBC…**


	6. Interlude

A/N: This one needs to come with a strong **content warning**. Both Regina and Emma dream of events that they went through when they were 18 years of age - events which include marital rape and attempted rape situations. Neither is graphic in any way, but both are implied, and I want to be sensitive as is needed. For anyone who doesn't want to read this chapter because of the above, please know that you're not missing anything plot point related in regards to the overall story if you do so. I believe that these events set up another layer of parallels and hopefully depth. There's also some salty language within.

* * *

_**Interlude**_.

* * *

She should get up and get herself the hell out of this room, Regina thinks to herself as a thick cloud of panic and anger settles over her mind just before it coldly buries itself deep within her gut. The anger fades away quickly enough – she's tired, and lacks the energy for it – but the panic seems to bloom and explode with each moment that passes by.

Emma sighs after a long moment of thick cloying silence, but says nothing else. Sheets crinkle and shift as the blonde moves within them, reaching down to pull a heavy quilt across her body as she does so. The window across from the bed is open, blowing in cold crisp ocean air.

The former queen stares at the open window for a moment, wondering absurdly if she could get through it without being stopped by the blonde woman who is still watching her. Her eyes drift to the knife and she almost laughs because really, how much further can one fall than this?

She's the one who speaks first, and it chafes at her that she is because all of her life, all of her upbringing has been about maintaining power and control, and right now, she clearly has neither. Still, the words spill out, "I should…"

And then she stops abruptly because she has no idea what she should do.

She falls back against the hard bedroom wall with a grunt of pain and frustration. Her head is pounding like a jackhammer again, and with it, her damaged wrist begins to ache anew. Her eyes flicker back up towards Emma, who is gazing at her with an unreadable almost neutral expression. Regina imagines that it's supposed to be a look free of judgment, but honestly, they're well past that point now.

Once someone has kidnapped you because they're fairly damned sure that if they don't, you'll go on a murderous rampage, well judgment free is pretty much out the window. And the worst of it is that deep down; Regina knows that Emma had been right in both her timing and her assumptions.

Just like she'd apparently been right in assuming that the former mayor wouldn't hack her to death with a kitchen knife.

Fucking hell.

Regina isn't much for cursing – well, not the profanity kind, anyway – but there are more than a few bright red words rushing through her exhausted brain right about now. This is madness and absurdity and…

Yeah, fucking hell is about right.

One more look over at Emma, and this time it's the blonde who looks away.

Normally, Regina might consider this to be the smallest of victories, but the sheriff manages to win this battle, too, by laying her head against the pillow and closing her eyes as if to fall back asleep. As if to suggest that she's not the least bit scared of the woman sitting against the wall.

It's an insult.

It's the truth.

She hears the blankets move and realizes that yeah, it's a bit cold in here.

She takes a deep breath, and then after a moment, follows suit, allowing her eyes to slowly slide shut. Just for a second, she tells herself without a shred of actual confidence. Long enough to catch her breath and get her bearings.

And then she'll recover both her sanity and her composure.

And her dignity.

That, too.

Yes.

That, too. And once she has it, she'll get up and walk out of this room, her head held high. That's what she'll do. That's what she'll…

She sleeps.

* * *

_She dreams. _

_She's eighteen and so very young and innocent. _

_So very naïve and foolish. Still so hopeful, and willing to believe that she can survive a deal with the devil just long enough to find a way to win her happy ending._

_She's wearing her wedding gown, a dress so gloriously white and beautiful that it'd made an old woman at the ceremony quite literally swoon. It's so terribly elegant and regal. So perfect. So very perfect. _

_Worthy of a Queen._

_She hates it with everything inside of her._

_Almost as much as she hates the massive bed that she's now sitting on. _

_Sitting and waiting._

_She looks at her hand and sees the wedding ring that sits upon her finger. __She notices, then, that her hands are shaking fiercely._

_She clenches them into fists. Not of anger, but of fear, and then feels like a child for such. She lifts her head as high as she can manage and tries to be strong. She hears her mother's voice and takes just a moment of comfort from it before she reminds herself that it is her mother who brought her to this terrible place. Her mother whose actions are making her choose this path – the only one that she believes that she has left to her._

_She tells herself that she's doing this for a reason. She tells herself that she just needs to survive this. That she can survive this. It's just a simple act._

_It means nothing. Nothing. Nothing at all._

_Her fingernails dig into the soft flesh of her palms, creating perfect crescents of pain. She thinks of Daniel. In her mind, he's simply sleeping. Just waiting for her to have enough magic to be able to wake him up. Her imagination is strong and hopeful, and she believes…she believes._

_And yet beneath it all, there are doubts. Ugly and dark and festering._

_Like what she has begun to feel for Snow. She's sickened by these feelings._

_Horrified. _

_And yet she can't seem to stop them or the dreams that have come with them. Dreams that have only seemed to get worse ever since she'd followed the imp's advice...suggestion...whatever...and sent her mother through the mirror. No. Don't think of that, she tells herself. Don't. Focus on Daniel. On happiness. Freedom._

_She just needs to hold out a little bit longer, she thinks. Just a little bit and then everything will be all right. She'll be with Daniel and everything will be as it always should have been. She'll be happy. They'll be happy._

_And yet when the doubts and fears surge up within her, she can't help but wonder if he'll forgive her for this. For what she's about to give up._

_She wonders if he'll understand that once you (or you mother) says "yes" to a King, you don't actually get the option of saying "No" to him ever again. Humiliating a monarch is something that always leads to pain and suffering. Sometimes even death. This is a reality that both of her parents have drilled into her, one that she doesn't even begin to doubt for a moment. _

_But that doesn't mean that once she has a very much alive and healthy Daniel back in her arms, and once her magic is strong enough to protect them both, that she doesn't plan to run like hell. _

_Run like hell and start over somewhere far away from here._

_Daniel will understand, she tells herself._

_What she's giving up, well it's just sex. It means nothing. Her mother had told her as much, told her to think of it as just a way to please her King._

_She closes her eyes, feeling her heart hammering away within her chest._

_The door to the room opens suddenly, and she jumps a bit, eyes widening as her new – and very much unwanted - husband enters the chamber. He's drunk and smiling, and she wonders what must be going on in his mind._

_She wonders if he's thinking of his former wife, his great love._

_She wonders if he's thinking of her at all. His eyes are glassy and distant, but he's still smiling in a way that makes her heart sink and seize. _

"_My Queen," he slurs, stepping towards her, hand outstretched._

_She tries to stand, but her legs refuse her the dignity of such. "My Lord," she stammers, the words just barely forcing themselves forward. She thinks of telling him that she's tired or sick or…well, anything. _

_She says nothing, though, just stares at him with wide pleading eyes._

_He touches her face, and try as she might, she can't help herself from moving her cheek away. If he notices, though, if he feels the way she shakes and hears the way she breathes, he doesn't speak of it. If he sees the fear in her eyes, this, too, he pays no mind to. She's his wife, and this is her duty._

_He kisses her, and her skin begins to crawl as his fingers clench against her. Tears forms in her eyes, and one even falls down her cheek._

_She tries desperately to think of Daniel, but as her beautiful white dress is pushed from her body, she quickly realizes that there are some things that you can't make better with just a little bit of imagination and hope._

* * *

_She dreams._

_She's eighteen years old and sitting by herself on an uncomfortable chair in the far back of the library. She's not much of a reader, but this is the one place here that she can actually get lost in. People rarely look for her here unless it's time for her to be somewhere else. Like back in her cell._

_She's flipping through a thirty-year-old book about World War 2, her eyes scanning over words that her brain refuses to absorb. Times like these, her confused mind begins to wander and she thinks back to Neal. _

_Why had he done this to her? What had she done to deserve it?_

_There had to have been something that she had done because in her life, there has always been something. A brutal beating she'd received at age nine had been because she'd made a mess that her exhausted foster mother had had to clean up at two in the morning. Getting kicked out of the house and sent back into the system at age twelve had been because she'd opened her mouth about something she'd seen her foster father doing._

_There's always something._

_She's not a child anymore, and she knows that the world is wicked and mean and full of awful people, but she also knows that there's always something that she could have done to prevent something from happening._

_She's been raised to always take the blame and responsibility for everything that'd ever happened to her. This is a lesson that has been drilled into her almost since the day that she'd first understood what the words meant. _

_Doing so has both saved her and cost her._

_So what was it, then? What had she done to make Neal betray her? Had she not been worth loving? Had she not been worth -_

"_Hello, sweetheart," she hears suddenly from behind her._

_Warily, she turns her head, her blonde ponytail swinging out. Her green eyes take in the face of one of the guards who works in the library. _

_Pete, she remembers. He's big and muscular, his breath smelling of tobacco. _

_She says nothing to him even though she can plainly tell that he's waiting for her to address with some title of respect. She simply watches and waits for him to make his move. She knows how this goes; she's seen too much to not know what he wants from her. What he expects from her._

_And then his hand settles on her knee. Her squeezes, his thumb rubbing._

_He smiles at her and leans in as if to kiss her, his breath ripe._

_She thinks for half a moment that she'll let him take what he wants and then it'll be over and he'll be gone and…something cold and hard snaps inside of her. Something says no. Something says fight back. Don't stop fighting._

_Fight until you can't. _

_Feeling stronger than she has in a long time, her body tenses, and she prepares to kick him if he moves in even a little bit closer. _

_She'll pay for this, she knows. _

_She'll be responsible for hurting him._

_She doesn't care. _

_She doesn't fucking care._

_He leans in closer, his hand moving up her leg, towards her waistline._

_She moves to meet him with her knee._

_She moves to take his balls off if she can manage it._

_That's when the nausea hits her like a freight train. Her stomach clenches and flips, her brain turning fuzzy and her eyes watering. The meager lunch that she'd consumed just hours earlier surges up through her._

_And then onto his shoes._

"_Bitch," he growls out, jumping back, eyes wide. When she still doesn't shrink from him, even bent over at the waist and clearly ill, he slaps her and she goes down hard, arms around herself. She can feel the warm pain rising up through her reddened cheek – and a voice in the back of her head reminds her how very thankful she is that she seldom bruises – but she pays it very little mind because right now, her body is freaking out on her._

"_Get up," he orders, disgust tainting his tone._

_She looks up at him with fire in her eyes. "Fuck you," she hisses out because she suddenly realizes that she's just about done bending to people like him. She won't give this son of a bitch the pleasure of breaking her down. _

_No matter what he does to her. _

_He grunts and then grabs her by the arm. He practically yanks her up, paying no attention to the obvious discomfort that she's in. He pulls her close to him, and breathes on her again, making her stomach roll violently. "You say a word about any of this and I'll make sure you never speak again."_

_She simply glares at him. She's got nothing to lose, and maybe he sees that in her turbulent green eyes because after a moment, he lets her go._

_She moves away from him quickly, then, still wincing._

_It's just a stomach bug, she tells herself as she hides herself away back in her lonely dark cell. Bad lunch, she insists. That's it. That's all._

_She thinks, suspects and even fears that maybe it's something else entirely when hours later, she's still throwing up, still feeling like she'd happily curl up and die if she could find a way to do so. _

_And when the next morning comes and the one after that, and both of these daybreaks bring to her more nausea, she knows exactly what it is._

_Somehow, she just does._

_Apparently, she realizes as she holds a pregnancy test in her hands hours later, she does still have something left to lose._

* * *

Emma wakes with a violent start, her breathing hard and panicked, a shaky suddenly unsteady hand settling over her hammering heart as she sits up in the bed. Sweat soaked sheets tangle around her legs, trapping her.

She takes a breath, and then another. It's been many years since she's thought of Pete the pervert juvenile detention guard.

A long time since she'd felt the fear he'd sparked inside of her.

She's a far different woman now. No longer willing to assume responsibility for the acts of others, but perhaps just a bit more understanding about the nuances and realities of life. Back then, she'd understood that people could and would hurt others, but she hadn't understood why.

Sometimes, it doesn't matter.

And sometimes it does.

She looks across the room, her eyes widening in surprise.

Regina's still there, her body now slumped against the wall. It's a decidedly undignified posture for a queen, and the soft tremble to her shoulders indicates that she's as troubled by her dreams as Emma had been.

She watches the brunette sleep for a few moments more, frowning as she regards the woman who had so very recently been her enemy.

She pushes herself up slowly, approaching softly, hands out in front of her as if to show her good intentions should Regina suddenly come to.

She doesn't.

Emma drops down next to her, picking up the knife that had been carried into the room just a few hours earlier. A knife that Regina had intended to murder the blonde with. Emma sighs and moves the blade away.

She gazes into the restless features of the older woman, studying her.

Wondering.

They're not friends. They're just two women who both love the same child.

Two women who have been through similar flavors of the same slice of hell.

Their stories aren't identical, and they're not the same, but when Regina whimpers and her hands clench and then reach out for something to grab, Emma feels like she has a little bit of an idea of what's going on in there.

Not everything, but something.

It makes her sick.

It makes her want to do something.

She considers waking Regina from her nightmare, but chooses to hold back.

Some secrets should be shared willingly and not just because they plague your nights. Some torments should only see light when the time is right.

She thinks of trying to move her back to her bedroom – or a bed at all – but though she's strong, she's not strong enough to do that without waking or accidentally hurting Regina, and honestly, as much as the woman pisses her off, that's the very last thing that she wants to do right now.

Which is weird enough.

Instead, she steps back over to the bed, pulls off the blanket and brings it back over. Bending at the knees, she lays it over the older woman.

"What a pair we make," she chuckles, the sound low in her throat.

She adjusts the blanket slightly, ensures that it's properly covering the former queen, and then turns and heads back to bed.

Sleep never returns.


	7. 5

A/N: Continued gratitude for all of the kind words. I want to express again that this is essentially a therapy fic for our two ladies so yes, it's very talky. There's some action to be had, but mostly it's working through issues. Please enjoy!

* * *

It's neither her sharply aching head nor her throbbing wrist that wakes her from her uneasy slumber, but rather a pulsating pain in her back. It originates low, just above her waistline, but then, upon shifting ever so slightly, it rather boldly shoots its way up and along her spinal column before finally settling deep within the muscles between her shoulder blades.

Groaning, Regina slowly rolls over and looks up at the ceiling of the room she's in. It takes a long moment for her to remember where she is and why.

Beach house. Emma Swan. Henry.

Magic. Kidnapping. Knife.

Snow. Mother.

Regina lets out a shaky breath that's just a shade shy of a dry sob. She closes her eyes, and fights for control. Fights to pull her emotions back down inside of her where yes, they can fester, but they can't control her.

She thinks be the Mayor not the Queen. Be the stronger one. Or at least the one that seemed like she was stronger, anyway.

Looking down, she's surprised to see a heavy blanket settled over her weary body. It's warm and soft, and part of her would like nothing more than to curl back into and return to a state of sleep. Yes, the dreams there are often hideous, but sometimes they're still better than the nightmare of reality.

Nightmares that include blackened hearts and too many tears to count.

She tries to remember where the blanket had come from, but the only memory that she can pull up is of Emma watching her from the bed across the room, the comforter wrapped around the blonde's lean frame.

Which means that Emma – always the hero – had put the blanket over her.

She's touched. And annoyed. Really fucking annoyed.

She stands up slowly, wincing as the pain from different areas of her body swirls together into a fiery ball of agony. Now that she's stretched out a bit, and the muscles in her back are loosening, she finds that the worst of the hurt is is coming from her throbbing wrist. A look down shows more blood on the bandages. The red hadn't completely leaked through the white gauze, but the crimson spots are enough to remind her of the damage she'd done to herself by trying to escape the sheriff's handcuffs.

Just the reminder of being restrained sends an icy chill up through her.

Never again, she tells herself.

She's told herself this before, though.

She closes her eyes and swallows, attempting to bite back the fear that is streaking through her. It won't do to show these emotions, to reveal them so easily. It's not acceptable to show such weakness to anyone.

Especially not Emma Swan.

She opens her eyes and looks down at her wounded wrist.

Too late, she realizes.

* * *

"Tell me you can cook more than eggs," Henry says after a few long minutes of watching his birth mother stare into the refrigerator, a slight frown contorting her features. She reaches in and moves a few things around.

"Hey, there are a lot of different things you can do with eggs," Emma assures him as she glances over her shoulder at her less than impressed son. "You can scramble them or poach them or…"

"Yeah, but they're still eggs."

"Yes. In different wonderful flavors. And they're cheap."

Henry wrinkles his nose. "Did you actually live on nothing but –"

"Eggs? Yes. I don't really know how to cook anything else," she admits.

"Yes, well, lucky for us, Henry," a low voice says from the hallway, the sound cool and completely controlled, "I do know how to cook other things." She enters the kitchen, walking softly on socked feet, looking smaller than Emma has ever seen her. She stops by Henry and bends as if to kiss him on the top of the head, but then pulls up and settles for a light touch instead.

Emma studies her counterpart for a long moment, taking in the bags under her eyes and clear exhaustion she sees dug into the lines of her face. Regina is holding her head up, trying to look superior, but never before has it been so easy to see behind the mask. Never has it been so easy to see the damaged woman that exists behind the cold and powerful former queen.

"Problem, Miss Swan?" Regina queries, dragging her attention back to the conversation about food as opposed to the real reason that they're here.

Probably best for now, anyway.

"Nope, and you're right; I suck at preparing that doesn't involve a box and milk, which is exactly why I bought other things," Emma offers with a smirk. "Such as bacon and cheese and mushrooms. Bell peppers, too."

She gets matching incredulous looks from both Regina and Henry for that.

"I like omelets," the blonde mutters as she pulls out a massive block of sharp cheddar and drops it onto the counter. She smiles widely, then, and for a moment, Regina is completely silenced by the expression. She can't, for the life of her, recall the last time that she was able to smile so freely.

That Emma – who has hardly led an enchanted life – can still do so is something that she is intensely – almost bitterly - envious of.

Quite unwillingly, her face contorts into an ugly mask of pain, and for a moment, it seems as though she might break down into tears.

"Regina?" Emma prompts, putting a hand out but stopping short of touching the older woman. There's something vaguely skittish about Regina right now. It's tied to the handcuff issue and the loss of free will, and a whole lot of other things, too. Which, of course, makes her eyes drop down towards the fresh bandage that sits on the brunette's wounded wrist. "You okay?" she asks after a moment, and it's a stupid question, but it's the only one that pops into her mind as she continues gazing at the white gauze.

"Fine. I'm fine. Did you want me to make the omelets?" the brunette stammers out, her voice shaky enough to make it clear that she's oddly quite uncomfortable with the question. And, of course, Emma had noticed.

"No," Emma answers in a gentle voice that seems utterly absurd for this conversation. Her eyes flicker back upwards, moving from the gauze to Regina's clouded over face, the emotion there still thick and dark. "Like I said, eggs are my thing. You can make dinner tonight. I got this."

A look of understanding passes between the two women (that Henry is watching all of this with an uncertain frown is lost on both of them) before Regina sharply nods her head in agreement. "Right. Well easy on the cheese for Henry and me," she insists, her shoulders squaring up tight as she reasserts control over the emotions that had slipped out of her grasp for the smallest of moment. "Too much of it is not good for the digestive system."

"God forbid."

Regina's eyebrow jumps into her hairline. "Don't you think you've already put enough garbage into my son's stomach over the last few months?"

"You mean when I introduced him to that weird substance known as chocolate?" Emma counters.

"Yes. He was eating three decent meals a day before you showed up," Regina snaps back. "Now he eats cereal for breakfast, lunch and dinner."

Sensing an argument that could grow quickly into something bigger, Henry breaks in, stepping in between them and offering up a chipper, "It's okay, Emma; I like mine with less cheese, anyway. But more bacon, please?"

His words are oddly formal and seem to suggest a child trying to calm both parents down like a psychologist would a married couple. It's unsettling for both Regina and Emma. Enough so where they simultaneously stand down, each retreating to a different part of the kitchen.

"Sure," Emma nods. "It's turkey bacon, anyway."

"The grocery store in this town has turkey bacon?" Regina queries.

"Apparently the mayor here is as anal retentive as the one back home."

"You mean she doesn't want to die early of cardiac arrest."

"I mean she has a stick up her ass."

"Emma," Henry cautions because damned if he isn't getting just a little bit tired of having to referee between these two. It seems to him as though they can turn anything – no matter how innocent – into an argument.

The blonde offers a tight smile. "Sorry. Two eggs or three, Your Majesty?"

"Two. And I don't need bacon in mine."

"Fine. More for me."

"You don't need bacon in yours, either," the former queen comments with a not so sly glance at the sheriff's backside. It's not at all sexual, but Emma finds herself shifting anxiously all the same. Maybe it's because Regina's eyes are so damned intense or maybe it's because she wonders if the brunette might just be right and perhaps she should skip the bacon.

Nah.

"Yes, well, too bad," Emma snaps back as she grabs a handful of the bacon and tosses it onto the already heated grill. It pops and crackles, grease snapping around the lean piece of turkey. "I like bacon."

"Way to take a stand, Sheriff," comes the dry response as Regina seats herself onto the one of the bar stools, folding one leg over the other in a way that makes her look like royalty even though she's wearing flannel pants. It's an absolutely absurd visual, and yet Regina makes it work.

"Yeah, whatever."

"Mm. Great response. So, after all the fun we had last night, are you not going to ask me how I slept?" Regina challenges, glancing over at Henry, who is watching both of his mothers with a bit of apprehension. Like he thinks that they might come to blows at any moment.

"What fun last night?" Henry asks. "What'd I miss?"

"She means all of yesterday," Emma assures him, shooting Regina an exasperated look. "Look, Kid, do me a favor, okay? Could you take out the garbage, please?" She flicks her hand towards the barely filled metal container settled against the wall. Maybe it's the firm tone she's using – one that the easy-going Emma Swan never uses – but whatever it is, he simply nods, grabs the trash and then exits the kitchen, and then the house.

"Thank you," Regina says once the front door has snapped shut.

"For not kicking your ass last night?" Emma asks, an edge in her voice.

"Well, I was going to say for not telling him what I had planned to do to you last night, dear, but if you'd like to congratulate yourself for the stupidest stunt ever, please don't let me stand in the way of that."

Emma's head snaps back in surprise. "Stupidest stunt ever? Excuse me? And what the hell was that, then? A test to see if I'd tell him what happened? Is anything not a game with you, Regina?"

Regina suddenly – and with a shocking amount of predatory grace - moves towards Emma. "Who are you to talk to me about games? What in the hell were you thinking? I could have killed you last night."

"Are we actually having this conversation?" Emma demands, eyes wide.

"I had a knife," Regina reminds her.

"I recall. I watched you standing over my bed with it."

"Ah. And I assume you believe that you could have stopped me if I'd decided to see how many times I could stab you before you bled out, yes?"

"Lovely visual, Regina, but yes, I was fairly certain I could take you if I needed to," Emma counters. "But I knew I wouldn't need to."

"You owe our son better than that."

"Our son? Now he's our son."

Regina glares at her.

"I have no idea what the hell is happening in this conversation," Emma tells her. "Are you pissed at me for having faith in your or for taking the risk?"

The brunette doesn't answer; just stares back at her, dark eyes fiery.

Emma sighs. "Right. Okay, why don't we take a deep breath here?"

"I could have killed you."

"But you didn't. And in a few minutes, we're going to have omelets."

It's the strangest non sequitur ever, but after a quick rapid blinking of her eyes, the former queen just goes with it. "And then? Do you have my day all planned out for me, Miss Swan? Down to the minute?"

There's an odd thickness to her tone, a kind of anger that seems unreasonable considering how much of Regina's life in Storybrooke had been planned out. She'd been nothing but schedules and timelines.

So why the bizarre straightening of her spine now? Why the weird fear?

"No. Look," Emma says after the staring match between the two of them has become awkward and uncomfortable. "I need you to trust me on this."

"I don't."

"I know, and you know what, Regina? I sure as hell don't trust you, either," Emma reminds her. Then, with a wry chuckle, "I'd be an idiot to."

"You're already an idiot. We wouldn't be here otherwise."

To Regina's surprise, Emma just grins at this. Like she'd just been given a compliment. It's absolutely infuriating if just a tad bit endearing as well.

"Yeah, well," Emma replies finally, "I've been called worse." She uses a spatula to put an oversized omelet onto a plate and then pushes it across the bar towards Regina. "Breakfast is served. You got dishes afterwards."

"I've been doing dishes for twenty-eight years, Miss Swan," Regina answers with just a hint of teasing to indicate that she's mostly just harassing Emma for the hell of it now. "Tell me, have you even done one in all that time?"

Emma shrugs her shoulders. "Plastic and paper are godsends."

"Shocking." She glances around, her eyes settling on a long table in the adjoining dinning room. "Are we eating at the bar instead of in there?"

"You want to do breakfast at the table?" Emma asks with some surprise.

Regina sighs. "As you said, we could be here awhile. This is already hard enough on Henry; if we can give him…"

She trails off, her eyes diverting and sticking to a dark spot on the far wall. Her hands join in front of her, clasping together tightly to keep her from fidgeting more than she already is. She's suddenly – uncomfortably - aware of just how small she is without her heels to lift her up off the ground.

"Right," Emma nods, understanding anyway. "Yeah, okay." She picks up the plate, and then another and brings them both over to the table. "Can you handle real glass this morning?" she calls back, the tone deceptively light.

The former mayor rolls her eyes, and reaches for the tall slender glasses that that Emma had already pulled down. She fills all three with orange juice and then brings them over to the table. "Did you make coffee?" she asks.

"Oh, yes. After last night, I figured we could both use it."

"The first smart thing you've done since you came up with this idea."

"Uh huh. And you who shredded your wrist trying to escape handcuffs thinks they have the right to call _me_ out on being stupid?"

"I don't like being restrained," Regina says once more, and then turns away.

Silently, Emma curses herself. The first time Regina had said those words, they'd been interesting. The second time was worrisome. Now, they're somewhat revealing, and not in a way that Emma cares for at all.

"Hey, wait, I'm sorry," she says, trying to infuse as much sincerity into her words as she can manage. When Regina turns back to face her, she tries to meet her eyes, hoping that the former queen will see the honesty there.

"For the cuffs or kidnapping me or…"

"The cuffs. I'm sorry for restraining you. It won't happen again."

Regina imagines that she's supposed to be gracious here, perhaps she's even supposed to nod out an acceptance of the apology, but she finds that she can't because there are some torments that dig too deep.

Some fears that go beyond simple words.

Emma, feeling more than a little awkward and uncomfortable about the weird emotional moment that they're having, keeps speaking because she doesn't know what else to do. "If you'd like to talk about it…"

"Coffee," Regina cuts in, her tone thick and meant to end the conversation.

Emma nods her head, seeming oddly relieved. "Over on the counter. It's a vanilla blend. Might not be the same one that you're used to back in Storybrooke, but they smell alike. To me, at least," she offers with a shrug of her shoulders, one that seems oddly insecure and uncertain.

Like she's worried that what she's done will be thrown back in her face.

The brunette woman's eyebrows lift up, surprise clearly showing in her dark eyes. It's a ridiculously small gesture – to try to get the same kind of coffee that Regina is used to – but it's more than just about anyone else has ever even tried to do for her, and yes, she supposes, it does mean something.

She nods her head slowly. "I…appreciate it."

She thinks she sees Emma let out a caught breath before smiling. "Good. So, uh, I was thinking…after breakfast, I have some things to do. Calls to make. Maybe you and Henry want to check out the beach. It's a private one so you guys can walk awhile without worrying about anyone interrupting."

"You're letting me have time with my son," Regina notes, the gratitude dissipating at the realization of just how suddenly dependent on Emma's grace she is. It's galling and makes her fingers twitch, even free of magic.

Emma lets out a low growl that is quite clearly frustration based. "Dammit, Regina. Would you cut this shit out, please? I'm not _letting_ you do anything. Henry is here with us because he _wants_ to be with you. All morning he's been talking about checking out some woodpile he saw yesterday. He'd like to do it with you," Emma insists. "I swear, that's all this is about."

"And I don't owe you anything for it?"

Emma's head jerks back in surprise, her eyes widening and her jaw dropping a bit, "Jesus, did your mother really do all of this to you?"

"Not a path you want to walk down, Miss Swan," Regina cautions, her eyes suddenly blazing with a fresh coat of anger. The rage comes on so quickly, she realizes, sliding through her with ridiculously poisonous ease.

"Fine," Emma agrees, because she's honestly not ready for this conversation yet, either. "We'll walk down _that_ path later. But for now, just answer me one question, okay? Have you ever in your entire life had someone do something for you without expecting you to do something back?

"No," comes the immediate response, Regina's chin lifting in defiance.

"Yeah, well, welcome to the new world order," Emma retorts, eyes blazing. She's angry, she knows, but what she's not sure about is why.

Is she angry on Regina's behalf? On her own? Because this whole mess has fallen into her less than able hands? Is she angry because the world – and apparently other worlds, too – always seems to hurt the ones it should protect? She honestly isn't sure what she's so pissed off about; she just is.

"But that's not true, is it?" Regina counters. "You want something, too."

"Peace on fucking earth," Emma snaps. "That's what I want. I want our son happy and I want you to maybe find some of that, too."

"And you? What do you specifically want, Emma? No one is so selfless as to not want anything from something. Even you, dear."

"Like I said yesterday, maybe we can help each other. Maybe that's what I want." She stares right back at Regina for a long moment, and then sighs. "I'm going to go find Henry; I'm sure he's sick and tired of staring at the garbage can." She chuckles in amusement at this, and then turns and exits.

Her eyes locked on the disappearing back of the sheriff, Regina scowls in reaction to the just utter – unbelievable - words. An exasperated shake of her heard follows, and then she reaches for the coffee cup on the counter.

The one that smells like vanilla.

She lifts it up, inhales the scent and then takes a sip. No, not just like home.

But close enough.

* * *

The sand is cool and comforting to her bare feet. The conversation – or lack of – between she and Henry is far less so. They've been walking for about ten minutes now, almost completely in silence. Every now and again, she's asked him a question and he's answered, but then everything stops again.

She wonders if the right words are within her, the ones that will make her son love her as he once did. She wonders if her heart is strong enough to convince him that there is still something worthwhile about her.

She wonders if he'll ever look at her as something other than damaged.

She sighs.

He looks up at her curiously. "What's wrong?"

She opens her mouth to respond, but then snaps it shut again. She's spent so much of her life trying to protect this boy from all of the dark evils of the world that letting him in on a few of them just to soothe her own wounded feelings seems like little more than a self-indulgent act of cruelty. That she hadn't protected him from the greatest of them – herself – is just a harsh bit of irony that she doesn't quite know what to do with.

Just as she suddenly doesn't know what to do with him. How to talk to him.

He's her son, and this should be easy because they still have ten years of shared experiences that predate Emma Swan and that goddamned book.

And yet she just stares at him, an uncomfortable fake smile plastered across her face. "Nothing," she finally says, her voice soft. Her mother tone.

He shakes his head, denying her even that. "That's not true. What happened last night with you and Emma? Did you try to escape?" His eyes are soft and non judgmental, like he'd been expecting her to do exactly that

"Yes," she says because telling him the actual truth would make the look there change to something darker. Something that would shatter the little bit of control that she's reasserted over herself within the last few hours.

He nods his head. "Thought so. It's okay."

"Henry, it's not," she tells him because this isn't a Hallmark movie and a few moments of understanding between she and Emma aren't going to make everything all better. Even vanilla coffee and stupid risks won't do that.

"No," he agrees. "It's not. You're not okay. You're hurt," he explains, and it makes her blink because that's not what she'd been expecting at all. She'd been anticipating another angry rail about her being the Evil Queen. What she sees looks like sympathy. And that, too, hurts.

She doesn't want her son to sympathize for her because if he does, it means he understands the life that she's led. It means he knows who she is.

Who she truly is.

And somehow that's worse than thinking of her as just the cardboard Evil Queen from the storybooks and Disney movies.

Because he's just a child and children shouldn't know of these things.

"I…"

"You miss your mother." His tone is measured and simple, allowing for little argument. He's so sure of himself, so confident that he understands all.

Quite against her will, her jaw tightens and she has to fight back on the urge to snap at him. Finally, thickly, she exhales a short, "Yes."

"And you're angry about what Mary Margaret did to her."

"I'm angry," Regina admits, wondering where he's going with this.

He nods his head as if understanding. "That's why we're here."

She reaches for his hand, wincing as the sudden movement of her wrist causes one of the cuts to break open and dribble blood across white gauze. Her fingers close over his, and she pulls him towards her. She drops down to a knee in the sand, the cloth of her slacks (yes, she'd chosen to wear those – she's not yet ready to allow for denim) scraping against the coarse sand below. "Henry, honey, I know you're hopeful, but do you really think a few days by the beach are going to make me someone…better?"

It's an honest question, and she's immediately appalled that it's fallen from her lips. She blames it on exhaustion and frayed nerves, but it hardly matters because the words are out there and he's looking at her, thoughtfully. He's considering the question, turning it over. Thinking.

"I think we can help you not hate," he tells her. "And that's better."

She feels tears sting against the back of her eyelids. "Henry."

"You're not ready yet, but that's okay," he tells her, and he sounds so much older and wiser than his years. Enough so where all she wants to do is wrap him into her arms and squeeze him as tight as possible. She wishes she could turn back the clock and do everything right. Make him happy.

Make him not see her as something to be despised, pitied and repaired.

"Why is it okay?" Regina prompts, lifting a hand to flick moisture away from her eyelashes. If he notices, he doesn't mention it.

"Because we have all the time in the world," he answers with a grin.

"Do we?" she laughs. "And what about school?"

He frowns. "I wasn't really going before."

"Absolutely charming," she grouses. "No pun intended."

He gives her a strange look at that, which she just shrugs off.

"Henry," she tries again. "Sometimes adults are hurt beyond the point of repair. Sometimes…"

"And sometimes they're not," he answers stubbornly, lifting his eyes to meet hers with a fairly knowing gaze. "You love me, don't you?"

"With all of my heart."

"You'd do anything for me, wouldn't you?"

"I hope you know I would."

"I do, and what I want is for you to give this a chance. Give us – give me and Emma – a chance. Give yourself a chance to be better."

She knows that she's being manipulated. Apparently, he really is her son because he's doing it while looking right at her, big eyes and all. He's using her love for him to keep her rooted in this ridiculous adventure.

And the only reason she's not freaking out about it is because she's tired of not being able to trust anyone. She's weary of not believing in anyone.

He's her son and if there's a chance for anything good left in this world, well then maybe it has to start with believing that her child truly wants the best for her. It's all she has to cling on to, the only emotion she has that doesn't feel like it's burning her alive from the inside out.

She considers asking him not to break her heart again, but the words catch because even in a moment where she feels close to losing everything, she still recalls that she is his mother and she doesn't want him carrying the weight of her demons and nightmares. She nods her head, sniffles, and then points ahead with a shaking hand that she hopes he doesn't notice, "There's your woodpile," she says, the sound like an odd choking laugh.

"All right!"

He grins at her, and reaches for her hand, his fingers closing around hers. The movement is more instinctual than planned and perhaps that's why it fills her with an almost suffocating amount of warmth right in the middle of her chest. His words might have been manipulative, but his touch is not.

"Come on," he says, giving her hand a hard tug as he moves them both towards the pile of decayed driftwood.

She lets him pull her along – as she has allowed him to pull her through so very much of life. He anchors her even as she feels the vague uncertainty of the situation she's found herself trapped within twitching beneath her skin. She knows enough to understand that he can't be the whole of her healing; there's too much inside of her that is damaged for her love for him to be able to repair it all. She knows that losing him once before had thrown her into a tailspin – one that she's still within if she's honest with herself.

If there's ever to be a chance of real recovery, deep down in the part of her mind that craves being whole again, she knows that can't do this for him.

Whatever this is.

But she also knows in the part of her that is ruled by her heart, as his fingers tangle with her own, that she can't ever be whole without him, either.

She tightens her hand over his, and squeezes. Lightly. Just enough.

He looks up at her and smiles, the expression as wide and as real as she's even seen it. The honesty there – the hope – steals her breath away.

It takes everything she has not to break down. Not to drop to her knees and beg him for forgiveness. Not to plead for his love. She won't do that, though because even now, she knows that what she wants – what she so desperately needs - is for him to give it willingly.

Instead, she offers a watery smile in return.

"Are we building a fort," she asks, gesturing towards the woodpile.

He laughs, and sounds so much like a child again that she thinks she can actually hear her heart sing with relief. "The best fort, ever" he tells her.

"The best," she agrees with a laugh of her own, and she thinks to herself that hell will freeze before it isn't exactly that.

* * *

"How many bottles of this hideous dreck did you buy?" Regina asks as she accepts the plastic stein from the blonde woman, and then without a moment's pause brings it to her lips. It's once again late in the evening, and apparently Emma means for this to become a nightly thing of theirs.

Drinking wine and staring out at the ocean. Interesting.

"Three," Emma says as she drops herself down into the chair next to Regina. She slouches outwards, her boots clunking heavily against the deck with all of the grace of an old west cowboy.

"And I'll be allowed glass when?"

"When I'm sure you won't stab me with it."

"I didn't stab you with the glass this morning," Regina reminds her.

"Our son was in the room."

"Ah."

"Hey, I'm joking, Regina," Emma says gently. "Mostly I just grabbed what was immediately available. And I didn't want to do any more dishes."

The former queen nods her head, grudgingly accepting the explanation even if a part of her can't help but doubt the honesty of the words.

Frowning, Emma tries again. "Dinner was good."

"Twenty-eight years of not having much to do gave me time to learn how to cook," Regina comments between sips. The wine is still terrible, but tonight, she almost welcomes the taste. If she drinks enough, she thinks maybe she can sleep and try to forget that how much in conflict she is with herself.

"Well, it paid off."

"Thank you." She turns to look at Emma. "Is this how things are going to be from now on? Are we going to be this ritualized every day?"

"Well, since this is only day two and day one involved you trying to escape several times, I'd say we've already broken out ritual."

"And this? You and I out here on the porch?"

"Relaxes me, but if you'd prefer to go watch television…"

"No," Regina answers with a curl of her lip. "This is fine."

"Also, I think it gives us a chance to talk."

"Because we're such good talkers, you and I."

"Maybe not, but there's no reason we can't try."

"Then by all means, Miss Swan, try."

Emma sighs in response. She stares out at the water a moment. Then, her voice very quiet, she offers up, "Okay, fine."

"Fine?"

"Fine; I'll talk. After I got released from jail, I didn't know what I was doing or what I was going to do. I was eighteen years old and pretty much my only usable skill was my ability to pick a lock. I considered for about half a second trying to find Henry, but if you think I'm a mess now…" She trails off, and then lifts the wine to her lips, taking a heft swig of the red liquid.

"Is that where the man who owns this house comes into play?" Regina queries after a few moments of silence, and though the words are a bit accusatory, the tone is far more gentle, curious as opposed to caustic.

"Yeah. Sometimes you look for someone to take care of you."

"That rarely works out."

"Try never. He was a complete jerk, but I was young and stupid and hurting and I just wanted someone to make me pretty promises of forever."

"And he did?"

"He did."

"And you believed him."

"I did. You'd think after what Neal did to me that I'd have learned, but I guess I needed to get taught that lesson twice to really understand it. He – the jerk - told me he'd leave his wife for me. I hated the whole world back then. What did I care if someone else got hurt because of me?"

Regina simply nods her head in understanding.

"It was always a lie, though. I was always just a toy to him. A fact which he made sure I knew the moment I started asking too many questions about when he'd pay out on his promises." She shrugs her shoulders, as if trying to mask the hurt of rejection that's still there. "Fortunately for us, I'm a toy that knows how to apply pressure to the right places. He's a son of a bitch who doesn't want anyone – his wife especially – knowing that he likes to screw eighteen year old girls." She motions around. "And so here we are."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I want you to know that no matter what you might think, I don't see myself as better than you. I never have. Maybe I'm just the person who understands what it feels like to get punched in the gut repeatedly."

"I don't have any good childhood memories," Regina says after a moment.

"What?"

"I assume that's what your next question was going to be. You told me something personal about yourself and now you'd like the same. That's how therapy of this type works, yes?"

"I'm not sure that there's an actual name for this type of therapy but okay, sure. But I didn't tell you that for any other reason than because I thought…I thought maybe…you know what…it just seemed like the right thing to do."

Regina gazes back at flustered painfully honest Emma Swan and chuckles.

"What?" Emma challenges.

"This is the stupidest idea that a person could ever have. I'm the Evil Queen for God's sakes, Emma. Do you really believe that you can talk me into a place where my heart will suddenly turn from black to red?"

"Why not?"

The brunette woman blinks in surprise.

"Exactly. You've spent so long deciding that you are exactly what everyone keeps telling you that you are –"

"Everyone including you, my dear," Regina reminds her, her mind flashing back to the confrontation on the front porch of her mansion after Archie's supposed murder. A murder which she'd been absolutely innocent of.

"I lost my mind."

"But in the end, you were right, weren't you?" Regina challenges. "My mother returned and I –" she stops and swallows hard, unable to say more as a million dark and painful feelings surge up through her.

"You let her twist you again."

"No one can do make you do anything that you don't allow them to do."

"We both know that's bullshit."

Their eyes meet, brown on green.

"I'm not ready for this," Regina says finally.

"Okay. So tell me something else."

"What?"

"You offered to tell me something in exchange for my story about the asshole who owns this place. So tell."

"I did not."

"Come on. Something small. Tell me what the one thing you liked the most about this world as opposed to the world you came from."

"That's a moronic question."

"Okay, then talk to me about Daniel," Emma lobs back, eyes blazing.

Regina's reaction is immediate and expected; her shoulders stiffen and her jaw tightens. Her eyes turn hard and then she's not so much looking at Emma as glaring at the woman, a slight curl to her lip. "No."

"I didn't think so," Emma says lightly. She takes another sip from the glass of wine. "Tell me something, all of this anger you have going on inside you, it's been there for a long time. Well before even I showed up to piss you off on a daily basis. What did you do to handle it before you had magic back?"

"I destroyed lives, Miss Swan; haven't you been paying attention?"

"Yeah, I'm thinking we need to find a better way to channel that anger."

"Yes, well, let me know when you figure that out. In the meanwhile, I suppose I can continue drinking bad wine and building wood forts."

"Yeah, about that. He really enjoyed getting to do that with you today," Emma tells her with something of a faint smile as she imagines the visual which Henry had relayed to her in enthusiastic detail. "He had a great time out there with the two of you all digging around in the mud. Said you looked like you were having a blast even covered in dirt and sand."

"I did," Regina admits, surprising even herself.

"You know, that's all he wants from either of us. He wants us all happy."

"I know," Regina answers softly, emotion shining brightly in her watery eyes. "But you and I both know that that's not always a possibility."

She stands up.

"Going to bed?" Emma asks.

"With any luck."

"Do I need to keep my eyes open?" Emma queries, and it's the somewhat light tone she uses that almost completely defuses the situation.

"No," Regina sighs, the anger sliding away from her. "I have no intention of trying to stab you to death tonight. Perhaps tomorrow."

"I'll remember that. Eggs at nine, Your Majesty."

Regina nods her head, then stands up. She's almost back inside when she stops and half turns back. "Aspirin," she says.

"What?" Emma queries, turning to face her.

"You asked me what I liked the best. Aspirin."

"Why?"

"Since I was a very young girl, I've…dealt with somewhat severe migraines," Regina offers up. "In my world, we used oils and steams and sometimes badly smelling creams to treat those – assuming they were ever considered to be real, which often they were not. The treatments were rarely successful, and the more powerful I got, the worse the headaches became."

"You couldn't just heal yourself?"

"I was never taught to be a healer. It wasn't an important skill for my…teacher wanted of me. Besides, healing oneself is pointless; you're just essentially moving energy within your own body around."

"But the aspirin here helped." It's a statement and not a question.

"Immeasurably. At least until you showed up." The comment isn't said maliciously, but rather factually. The implication of the migraines being stress related is clear to Emma and in spite of herself; she feels a spark of guilt wind it's way through her. It's ill deserved, but there just the same.

"I'm sorry. Believe it or not, I never meant…I wasn't trying to hurt you."

"I do believe you, dear, but perhaps that's why you were so very good at it just the same," Regina suggests with a sad almost wistful smile. Before Emma can respond, she dips her head, and say, "Goodnight, Miss Swan."

And with that, she turns disappears inside leaving Emma with just the wine and the rushing waves to keep her company.

After a few long minutes and another glass of wine, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out her cell. She finds a number, punches it and then waits for a sleepy voice to answer. "Hey," she says. "I need a favor."

**TBC...**


	8. 6

**A/N:** Well, this one certainly got away from me. It's a bit longer than I'd expected.

Tough and stressful times ahead for our lovely ladies (it will start lightening up in regards to their reactions to each other, if not necessarily the issues from their past that they need to work through). It's not easy trusting or believing in people when you've constantly been betrayed or had your free will stripped away. This is that journey.

I thank all of you for your incredible feedback and comments. I appreciate each and every one of them.

Warning - some salty language and Neal within.

* * *

Emma Swan likes her showers cold – ice cold. Always has. It makes no sense, of course, and it has absolutely nothing to do with sexual frustration, but Emma Swan has always preferred the chill of frigid water to the cloying steam of overwhelming heat. Right now, she's enjoying exactly such a shower, her forehead rested against equally cool tiles, her mind whirling rapidly as it has been almost every moment of the last seven days.

It's been an eventful last week. Never a dull moment.

But then what else is to be expected after you kidnap a Queen?

An Evil Queen.

She chuckles, and shakes her head. Wet blonde hair slaps against the tiles and then sticks to her forehead before climbing into her eyes. She pushes it away, and leans back, allowing cold water to slide over the front of her. It tumbles down her skin, waking her entire body up.

It's been seven days of small steps. Baby steps.

It's still progress, she likes to think.

Well, Regina hasn't tried to murder her with a kitchen knife again, at least.

And yeah, that's something.

There have been other small things, too.

Regina seems to have accepted that this situation is a long term one and has stopped asking "why are you doing this, Miss Swan?" every five seconds. Which isn't to say that she doesn't cast suspicious glances over at the sheriff every opportunity she has, but there's something different. Less hostile?

No, that's not right. She's not less hostile, she's less skittish. She seems more like she's decided to give Emma the benefit of the doubt.

And then there's the now nightly talk on the deck.

On day three, Regina's confession after three glasses of red wine (she'd managed to find a vaguely better label on the latest store run) had been about her enjoyment of peppermint, something that hadn't been native to Fairytale Land. She'd admitted – with a slight blush to her cheeks – a fondness for the plant, even going so far as to confess to often having it added to her coffee and to buying chocolate flavored with it. Why this had been such a big secret for Regina is still lost on the blonde sheriff, but she'd filed it away in her brain nonetheless.

On day four, Regina had admitted to having tried to learn about American sports after coming over to Maine. She'd been something of an athlete in her earlier days (Emma had noticed the strange tightening of her eyes when she'd ever-so-briefly spoken of her youth), and had found herself curious about the activities of this world. When Emma had asked her which one she'd ended up liking the most, the brunette had shrugged her shoulders and returned to sipping her wine like the answer would explain too many secrets and provide too many answers. It'd been as puzzling a reply as the peppermint admission, but this, too, had been filed away for later.

Day five had brought with it conversation about the strangeness of driving a car. The knowledge of how to do so had come with the curse, but the comfort level had taken time. When Emma had asked how many accidents the former queen had gotten into before she'd figured things out, Regina had simply chuckled and taken another sip of her wine. Emma had noticed an interesting half smile tugging at Regina's lips, but the brunette hadn't elaborated and had instead changed the subject to something safe – Henry.

Also known as the default position that Regina inevitably falls back to anytime that she doesn't want to discuss something that might be too revealing or too intense. Which is pretty much every time and about everything best that Emma can tell.

Still, Emma's gladly taken the tidbits of information where she can get them.

On the sixth day, Regina had spoken about the first time she'd tried to cook a roast and how it'd tasted like dried leather. She'd stated that her need to actually become good in the kitchen hadn't come around until Henry had, and then she'd wanted to be more than just good, she'd wanted to be perfect. Almost immediately after admitting such, she'd locked down again.

Which brings it all to this morning.

Day seven.

She smiles a bit to herself wondering what today will bring. She finds herself oddly charmed and intrigued by these little confessions, even so much as wondering if they can piece together to form the puzzle that is Regina.

Of course, should Regina realize that she's trying to do such, Emma has no doubt that the former queen will immediately shut her out again.

It's maddening, really, but then Emma hadn't been naïve enough to think this could ever be easy for either of them. Though in a weird sort of way, it has been for Henry. He's enjoyed getting to spend time with his mothers. He's enjoyed not being pulled between them.

If she's honest with herself, Emma's enjoyed this, too.

With a dismissive grunt (because really, how could she enjoy anything about Regina), she snaps off the cold water, holds for a moment longer to allow the chill of the air to settle against her body (it makes her skin feel almost painfully alive, something she's welcomed since she was very young), and then steps from the shower.

She dresses quickly – jeans, a hoodie, and socks – and then pulls her blonde hair back into a fast and messy ponytail. A glance at the clock on the wall (who puts a clock in a bathroom, she wonders) shows that it's eight fifty-five in the morning, which means she's right on time to get breakfast started.

Because that has become as much ritual as wine and confession time has. In the morning, she makes something egg related, lunch is usually sandwiches of some kind and then dinner is whatever Regina feels like throwing together. It was spaghetti one night and then salad a couple evenings later.

Emma's pretty sure that the salad had been some kind of passive aggressive dig at her for some perceived slight or another, but like a good girl intent on finding a way to make this work for everyone, she had dutifully chewed the inside of her cheek to stay quiet, and swallowed down the rabbit food.

All the while thinking about making Regina eat sunnyside up eggs in the morning. Maybe make them runny. Just for the hell of it. And maybe even just to see the half incredulous-half infuriated look on Regina's face because she's pretty damned sure that fucking queens don't eat runny anything.

Come the next morning, though, she'd made Regina a two-egg omelet with spinach and mushrooms, and the brunette had even nodded her approval between bites. Emma had taken that for the win she'd been looking for.

This morning, well she's not sure what she'll go with.

Maybe it's time to try to cajole Regina into allowing for some bacon.

* * *

She makes her way past the still closed door to Regina's room, and into the kitchen where Henry's already sitting, flipping through a Captain America comic book.

"Morning, Kid," she chirps, flashing him an affectionate smile.

"Morning, Emma," he answers without looking up from the comic book. He turn the page, his eyes on the colorful panels. "You're behind," he adds after a moment, and she notices a glass of orange juice in front of him.

"Your mom's already up?"

"Was. Then she went back to her room."

Emma frowns at this, lines forming on her forehead. "She did?" She wonders vaguely if she sounds as dumb to her son as she sounds to herself.

He looks up at her, his expression curious, "Yeah. She seemed upset."

The lines deepen. "She did?"

"You just asked that," he tells her, and she can hear Regina in the impatience of his tone.

"I did," Emma admits with a sigh. "Okay, so just to be clear: your mom was already up, got you orange juice and then stormed out of the kitchen?"

He screws up his face for a moment in an expression meant to imply concentrated thinking, and then shrugs his shoulders. "More like walked briskly." She wonders for a moment if a kid his age should know that word, and then wonders if she'd known it when she'd been eleven.

"Right," she finally says, shaking her still wet hair. "And she didn't give any indication as to why she was upset?"

"She never lets me see," he answers, and then he frowns as if realizing just how true that actually is. "But she should, right?"

"Maybe," Emma hedges. "But she's trying to protect you." As she's saying this, she walks around the counter towards the massive stainless steel refrigerator against the far wall. She pulls up a bit short next to it, her eyes tracking over to her cell phone, which is plugged into the wall. She picks it up and flicks the home button. On the screen is a message informing her that she has a voicemail that has not yet been listened to from Archie. She'd called him the previous afternoon to ask for some advice on what the next should be in this whole therapy thing. Apparently, they're playing phone tag with each other.

She makes a mental note to give him a callback while Regina and Henry are out on the bench working on the fort, and then puts the phone back down and pulls open the door to the refrigerator, her eyes scanning for eggs.

"I know," he says, the impatience growing. "But I can handle the truth."

"It's not always about the truth, kiddo," Emma tells him, glancing back over her shoulder at him. "And I know you can, but some old habits die hard."

"You mean like lying?"

Emma turns to face him, leaning backwards against the counter, the lip of the marble resting solidly against her hips. She meets his eyes – green on green. "Did she lie to you before she walked out of the room?"

He lifts his chin. "She told me she was fine."

Emma nods at this and offers him a sad smile. "That's not really a lie in the usual sense of the word," she tells him. "Sometimes adults say that because they want to protect someone – you – and sometimes they say it to protect themselves. And sometimes they – we, your mom and I – say it because if we don't, we're afraid that we might not actually be okay."

He wrinkles his nose. "Sounds complicated. Why not just feel what you feel and say what you mean. If you're hurting, tell the truth."

She laughs. "Do me a favor, huh, kid? Don't ever change."

"Why would I change?"

She almost answers him with the word "life" but manages to stop herself short, instead answering him with another smile that doesn't come close to meeting her eyes, and then asks, "Scrambled this morning, you think?"

"Sure. Can I have extra bacon?"

"Only if your mom doesn't eat hers."

"Cool."

* * *

It's ten minutes later, and breakfast is just about ready to go when it occurs to Emma that Regina doesn't actually intend to come out of her bedroom because maybe she's ticked off about something. It's absolutely absurd and childish, and she can't figure out for the life of her what could possibly be pissing the former queen off today, but she knows that she needs to find out.

"Set the table?" she asks Henry. He nods his head and puts down the comic book, jumping to his feet and moving over to the cupboard. She hears the clatter of dishes and instinctively winces before a more vindictive thought – a few broken plates ought to serve the son of a bitch who owns this place right – skips through her mind. She quickly shakes it away because even though her ex is a scumbag, she really is grateful to have use of the house.

She takes a breath and then heads back down the hallway, coming to a stop in front of Regina's still closed bedroom door. Another breath, this one deeper (and she wonders why she's so damned nervous about this), and then she knocks lightly. "Hey, breakfast is ready."

"Not interested," comes the very quick sharp reply.

Emma's head jerks back on her neck and for a moment, she just stares stupidly at the door. Then, a wave of frustration moving through her, she steps towards it and says quietly, "Is something wrong, Regina?"

Something hitting the door with a not quite solid smack is her only response. It's not heavy sounding, which means it likely wasn't Regina's hand, but it was loud enough to have some violence behind the motion.

Which means that for whatever reason, the former queen truly is pissed.

Emma sighs. "I'm coming in."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

"Why not?" Emma asks as she pushes open the door.

"Because I'm naked."

Emma blinks. "So you are."

And so she is. Thankfully, not completely so. Instead, the former queen is standing smack dab in the middle of the room, surrounded by denim and flannel, wearing only a pair of red lace panties (presumably the ones she'd been wearing when they'd kidnapped her) and a black cotton tank top. That the tops don't match the bottoms seem to be the least of Regina's concerns right about now. Or maybe, Emma wonders, that's what this is all about.

No, even Regina isn't that crazy, she tells herself.

"Wardrobe malfunction?" Emma offers up weakly, averting her eyes quickly, and looking around the messy room instead. It looks vaguely like Regina has had a complete temper tantrum and this is the fallout from such.

"I have nothing to wear," the brunette snaps back.

"Really? Because we're standing on about eight different outfits."

"Your clothes, Miss Swan, not mine." She sniffs at them, and then crosses her arms across her body, which probably is meant to hide herself from Emma's eyes, but ends up yanking the blonde's attention towards her instead. And though Emma is desperately not looking, she can't help but see what the queen has on display and…yeah, there's a wall over there.

And her eyes can't find the wall quick enough.

"Something interesting on the wall, Miss Swan?" Regina demands.

"No," Emma answers sharply before returning her eyes to Regina's face, and taking in the expression of pure fury she sees there. "You want to tell me what the hell is going on here? You've been wearing these clothes, which by the way are not my clothes, for the last week. Why flip out now?"

"I am _not_ flipping out."

"You could fool the shit out of me."

"Most people can, dear."

Emma clenches her fists and counts to ten. And then twenty. And then fucking thirty. It's not working. Right now, she'd really like to hit something.

Which reminds her, where the hell is that favor of hers? Another call to make once she's gotten Regina calmed down enough to return to their routines. Because those might be slow going, but they're not violent.

And they're not this, whatever the hell this is.

"Okay," Emma starts again after several seconds and a half dozen inhale/exhale exercises that really don't do much besides make her feel like she's out of breath and panting. "You're pissed about something. That much is obvious. So, why don't we start with you telling me what it is, huh?"

Emma's pretty sure that had Regina still her magic, the former queen would have knocked her clear through the wall in the hallway. At least, that's what the furious flashing of Regina's eyes seems to suggest.

"I owe you nothing," the brunette growls out.

"Okay, putting aside for a moment that I'm pretty sure you actually do, and ignoring the fact that nowhere in my question was there anything about you owing me, where is this coming from, Regina? Did I put a plate in the dishwasher upside down and your inner control freak flipped out?"

Regina stiffens up suddenly. "As I said previously, Miss Swan, I am not flipping out. I am simply stating that these despicable garments are not mine." She turns and points at the bed. "And that is not mine, either."

"The bed part is new, but you already mentioned the clothes, and aside from the fact that you still refuse to wear jeans, which means we have to do a load of laundry every night, I'm not understanding what the issue is."

Emma thinks to herself that this has got to be one of the strangest conversations that she's ever had. It's more like a half-assed one-sided fight, but it's still happening, and she's still utterly in the dark as to why.

"I don't want to be here," Regina answers, and Emma's suddenly pretty damned sure that if the former queen would allow herself the indignity of pouting, she would be doing exactly that right now. "I don't need to be."

"Pretty sure you're proving the counterpoint to your argument right now, Your Highness."

"Majesty," Regina snaps out.

"What?"

"You, Miss Swan, would be called Your Highness. I am a ruler of an actual kingdom, however, and thus should be addressed as Your Majesty." There's an oddly derisive hint of malice in her tone, but it's hard for Emma to feel threatened while she's getting a lesson in titles and terminology.

"Fine, Your Majesty," Emma spits out between teeth clenches hard enough to break. "Perhaps when you're done having a temper tantrum like our son would over clothing, you'd deign us worthy of having breakfast with us."

"I am –"

"You are and it's ridiculous, Regina. I don't know what the hell has got you so wound up, but I know it's beneath you," Emma retorts. "You're a gigantic fucking pain in the ass with a bad attitude and a piss poor temper, but you're typically more tyrannical in your psychosis than childish."

"Are you calling me a psychopath?" There's an odd chill to her voice, but something else, too. Something that sounds a whole lot like hurt.

In fact, this whole damned conversation sounds like hurt, and for the life of her, Emma just can't figure out why. It can't be over clothes, right?

The blonde sheriff shakes her head. "It wouldn't be the first time, but no, what I'm saying is that this," she gestures around the room, "well this is something I'd expect from Henry and not from his mother. Not from you. Like I said Regina, this is beneath you. It's beneath both of us, and I guess that means it's up to me for once to be the adult and step out of it. Henry and I will be at the breakfast table waiting for you to join us. Do it or don't, I honestly don't really care." She turns to walk away, but stops briefly. She considers reminding Regina to put on clothes, but thinks that maybe that'll just cause whatever this ridiculous argument is to flare up all over again.

So she says nothing at all.

Instead, she turns and walks away, leaving the former queen towering over mounds of unwanted clothing, wearing only her mismatched underwear.

And then, standing in the middle of the hallway, a quite frustrated Emma blows out a gust of air, because that was surreal in a way that frankly makes her stomach curdle anxiously. The behavior is so counter to everything that she's ever seen with Regina and while she understands enough about basic psychology – some of it thanks to her many hours spent with counselors as a foster kid and some of it thanks to Archie – she's at a complete loss as to what might have caused Regina to act out in such a childish manner.

Because no matter what Regina thinks, that absolutely had been a tantrum.

Emma's always thought of herself as a teenager stuck in time, someone who hasn't quite grown up no matter how much she's tried to, but even she can't recall the last time she'd had a flip out like that.

She thinks back to the many months spent dancing around in circles (all the while playing every kind of mind game) with Regina before the curse had been broken. Regina had been cold, cruel, manipulative, and at times straight up malicious. She'd also shown moments of pettiness and outright assholish behavior, but she'd never acted like that. Once the truth had been revealed and the queen had been laid bare, she'd tried on humble and even docile, and when that hadn't worked she'd gone for angry and bitter.

None of those things match what Emma had just witnessed.

Yeah, she thinks with a resigned sigh, she's definitely going to have to call Archie to get some advice on this whole mess.

* * *

"Is she joining us?" Henry asks, his voice quiet and uncertain.

The two of them – he and Emma - are seated on opposite sides of the long dining room table, and much to Emma's surprise – and annoyance - it feels oddly empty without the third person there. Normally, their meals are consumed in relative silence from the two women. Instead, both of them concentrate on their son and his desire to tell them stories. He relays tales that Emma suspects Regina knows the real details about, but if the former mayor actually does, she never lets on. She simply smiles at Henry and nods.

And urges him to keep talking and to tell another story because the sound of his voice, and that he's talking to her seems to be the best cure for rage.

At least in the short term.

All in all, the shared meals have become strangely comfortable and they, too, have after only a week become something of a routine for the trio.

"I don't know, kid," she admits as she nudges the plate of bacon towards him. He takes just a few pieces, leaving some behind for Regina.

There's a pause, and then he asks in a voice far too young for him and all that he has seen and been through over the last year, "Is she mad at me?"

"No," Emma says immediately. She shakes her head, her mind circling back to a similar conversation that had occurred a week earlier in Mary Margaret's loft. Then, Henry had been firmer, strong, more resolute.

Now he looks like an unsettled and uncertain child. It cuts right through her.

"Are you sure?"

"If she's not, I am," a soft voice says. Mother and son look up to see Regina walking slowly towards them, wearing familiar slacks on the bottom but one of the hoodies – a dark red one with Maine written in cursive across the front of it - on her top half. She's padding around in just socks, and thus doesn't look quite as dominating as usual, but Emma's smart enough to hold her tongue because the expression on Regina's face is one of shame, and while Emma's pleased that the outburst seems to be over, something inside of her tells that she doesn't actually want to push down on the darkness.

Something tells her that doing so would be the quickest way back to anger.

She watches as Regina seats herself slowly, the former mayor's spine straight as a board against the back of the chair. Whatever had been going on before is over, and the breeding and upbringing parts of the brunette have kicked in. She looks regal and composed, back in control.

It's a lie, but not one that she's going to call Regina on. At least for now.

"Henry, sweetheart, I could never be mad at you. Ever." She meets his eyes when she says this, trying to make him see the truth of her words.

He nods his head and offers her a half-smile. "Okay. Are you okay?"

The former queen looks like she's thinking her answer over for a moment, trying to decide just how much honesty he can handle. Finally, with a small smile, "I had a rough morning. It seems that I owe you and Miss Swan…"

She pulls up short, frowning. Her jaw tightens suddenly, and her lip purse. It almost seems like it's physically painful to get the words needed out.

"Are you all right now?" Emma asks, and she's not one bit sure why she's jumping in to help Regina out right now. Regina definitely owes the apology that she's trying to spit out, and yet the same voice that has been guiding Emma from moment one of this little adventure is telling her that there's something innately dangerous about Regina uttering the words "I'm sorry" right now. Something that maybe no one is yet ready to deal with.

"I am," Regina answers.

"Good. Then let's eat." Emma pushes the plate with bacon on it towards Regina, and their eyes meet. She thinks she sees something like gratitude there, and while she still has no idea what that whole weird explosion was about, she finds herself nodding in spite of her irritation and frustration.

She finds herself allowing the tension to roll away from her shoulders.

They can return to routine now.

And that routine for the moment includes Regina lifting up a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at the plate of bacon and shaking her head.

Turns out, there is more bacon for Henry.

It occurs to Emma much later that maybe that's the whole point.

* * *

She hears the soft footsteps behind her and for a moment, her mind blanks because although this is pretty much all she's heard for the past seven days, it's still a bit odd to not hear the click-clack of Regina's heels. It's weird to think of her moving around in just socks. Weirder to actually see it.

Queens don't wear socks. They dominate and rule; they don't pad. And yet.

"So, now that the kid is out of the room, are you going to tell me what that was about?" Emma asks as she turns to take a plate from the older woman. Henry has already left the room, eager to shower and get ready for the day ahead – another one spent mostly on the beach with Regina, most likely – which leaves just the two women to clean up the breakfast mess.

"I lost my composure," Regina states.

"No shit. Why?" She takes another plate, scrubs it off and then slides it into the dishwater. Technically, per their routine, dishes after breakfast falls to Regina, but it hardly seems worth the hassle of reminding her of such.

Especially when getting to the bottom of the great clothing tantrum is so much more important right now.

She watches as Regina worries her bottom lip for a moment, and it's an unbelievably vulnerable action. So much so that Emma finds herself having trouble tearing her eyes away. Finally, the former queen says in a halting somewhat unsteady voice, "I feel like I'm off balance. Like I can't seem to get my footing on…well, anything." She blinks and shakes her head, like she's not entirely certain that she actually just the words that she had.

Emma nods her head. "Believe it or not, I understand."

Regina stiffens up, all of the vulnerability disappearing from her features and face becoming hard again. "I don't want your understanding."

"Don't you? Isn't that what all of this is about? No one has ever bothered to try to understand your side of things."

"I'm not a charity case, Miss Swan, and I do not need your pity."

"Hey, easy. That wasn't...look, I actually thought you and I were getting along pretty well. Well, about as good as we're capable of anyway."

"Considering you're my captor and I'm your captive."

"Sure, yeah, considering that," Emma answers with a frown.

"Mm, well then, yes, I suppose we were. So…" she stops again.

"Why can't you say it?" Emma queries, stepping closer to her. They're in each other's personal space again, but it's oddly familiar for both of them.

"Say what?"

"That you're sorry. Twice this morning you've tried and both times you've looked like you were about to pass out. I don't get it; you said you were sorry to me outside of Granny's Diner a few months ago."

Regina lifts her chin and directly meets Emma's eyes, her gaze cool and suddenly quite controlled. "Exactly," she nods. "And look where that got me, Miss Swan." She gestures around. "Just look."

She holds the gaze for a moment longer, and then turns and walks away.

Emma swears that she hears the sound of heels clicking against the floor.

She swears that she hears a Queen departing.

* * *

It's about to rain, Emma realizes as she stands on the back deck of the house, overlooking the ocean. She knows that she should probably go out and get Regina and Henry, and bring them home before the storm touches down, but she's more than a little reluctant; she's made a point of staying away from their mother-son time. They've been working on his wood fort for the last week, every night covering it up with a massive blue tarp. They won't even let her see it yet, and she finds herself oddly intrigued by this.

And pleased.

Because deep down, she actually does feels a kind of churning guilt about the many ways that she's come between Regina and Henry. No, Regina certainly hadn't helped matters, but neither had she gone out of her way to remind the boy of the true nature of family and how blood only matters when it comes to infusions and one's biological medical history.

She'd allowed Henry to come to her instead of Regina. Irritated and pushed to the edge by Regina's defensive actions, she'd almost vengefully allowed the older woman's relationship with their son to deteriorate. Which in the end, hadn't been in the best interests of anyone.

Now, it's time to fix things, and the best way that she can do that is by not doing anything at all. This time is important for them. No one is watching over them or telling them how they should feel; it's just mother and son bonding and building something more than just a fort together.

She lifts a cup of hot coffee up to her lips. It's getting cold quickly, and the dark clouds hovering overhead suggest that the rainstorm incoming will be a good one. This house is up enough from the surf that it shouldn't sustain any damage, but that doesn't mean she isn't just a little bit on edge.

These days, she's always on edge. Rightfully so, really.

It's the sound of a car approaching from the front of the house that pulls her away from her thoughts of rain and windows and edges.

She frowns a bit, wondering who could be coming here to see them, all the while desperately hoping that it's not the man who owns this place. She'd had to talk to him via email to arrange this, but she could happily go the rest of her life without speaking to the son of a bitch again.

Turns out it's a different son of a bitch.

"Neal," she says mildly as she walks down the short path towards where his car is parked. He looks up at her and smiles lazily.

"Hey."

"You were supposed to be here five days ago."

"I know. I did text you back and tell you I had some things to do, right?"

"Yeah, five days ago," she fires back before taking another sip of coffee.

He shrugs his shoulders. "I'm here now."

"Yeah, you are." She glances up at the sky. "And we should get you going again before the rain starts."

"Eager to get rid of me?"

"Actually, yes. I don't think Regina will take well to seeing you."

He nods his head. "I get that, but I'd like to see Henry if that's possible."

"It's not."

"Emma –"

"Now's not a good time, Neal."

"You promised."

"And I mean to keep my promise, but not a week into this." She grits her teeth for a moment and then adds, "Please."

"Fine. Bag is in the back. Mind if I ask if it's for you or her?"

"Both of us, hopefully."

"You really think she'll use it?"

"I'm not sure," Emma admits as she walks around with Neal to the back of the car. He pops the trunk and they peer in. "Used?" she asks.

"Yeah. Got it from a guy I know at a local gym. It's still in great shape, though. In any case, it'll do what you need it to do."

"Yeah. How much do I owe you?" she asks, reaching into her back pocket for her wallet. She pulls it out and opens it up.

"Nothing," he replies, his voice quiet.

"Neal…"

"You don't owe me anything." He meets her eyes, and she sees regret there. It's weird to her, though, because though she has no desire to hate him or even feel any dark emotion for him, she can't quite find it within herself to really care about his regret. He made his own choices.

They all have.

She's had to deal with hers.

About time someone else had to as well.

She considers arguing with him and then shrugs. "Right." She leans in towards the bag lying across the bottom of the deep trunk.

"I can get it," Neal offers.

"No, I got it, and then you need to go. I'm sure Regina's felt the drops and is on her way back here now. I really don't want her seeing you."

As if to prove her point, several drops of icy cold water from above suddenly spray the two of them, one of them dribbling down her nose.

"You think she'll lose it?"

"You're Henry's dad and Gold's son. She's predisposed to wish you dead on sight," Emma replies, a small humorless smirk appearing on her lips.

"Right. Oh, hey, you got something on your nose," he says, and with is own smirk – this one stupidly boyish - he lifts his hand as if to wipe the water away from her. Startled by his actions, she's moving away while he's moving forward and it is every bit the opposite of a good romantic comedy movie.

Especially when she hears, "What is he doing here?"

She jerks backwards, moving as far away from Neal as she can manage. She turns her head, eyes wide as can be as she takes in the furious expression settled on the face of the former queen. Regina and Henry are standing just a few feet from she and Neal, but for all the safety of that, it might as well be inches. There's just no way around it: Regina looks damn near homicidal.

"Fuck," she growls out beneath her suddenly visible breath. Because this situation just went from uncomfortable and unwanted to dire and damn near catastrophic. Especially if the fury flowing off of Regina in massive waves is any indication of her current emotions and state of mind.

"Neal," Henry call out, his expression widening. He's blissfully unaware of the sudden tension in the air, completely ignorant of the frantic looks being traded back and forth between his two mothers. One desperately apologetic, the other furious beyond the telling of it.

"Hey, buddy," Neal answers with a broad smile. Then, his eyes tracking up towards the glowering woman standing next to the boy. "Regina."

She ignores him, her attention completely locked on Emma. "Is there anyone that you haven't decided to let know about this little fiasco of yours, Miss Swan? Is there anyone else perhaps that you would like to bring here in order to humiliate me? Oh wait, most of them still can't cross the town line, can they? That must be quite the disappointment for you."

"Regina, wait, you've got it all wrong, okay? Neal isn't here to…whatever you think, it's not what's happening here. He brought something for me."

"Oh, I'm quite certain that he did. In fact, my son and I were able to see very clearly what it was that he was going to give to you."

It takes everything Emma has to be the bigger person and ignore the pointed dart that's just been thrown towards her self worth. As if she would ever take back the man who'd sent her to prison all while loving her.

There are some things that you just can't get past; that's one.

But then, this isn't about Emma and Neal hooking up, anyway. This is about Henry and Rumple, and history that goes back several decades, and then several centuries beyond even that. This is about a ruined life.

And hurt. A whole lot of hurt.

"I swear to you, Regina; he's just here to bring me supplies."

"You're lying."

Emma's head snaps back, indignant anger making her flush. "I'm not."

Neal turns his head towards Henry. "Hey, how about we go inside?"

That's enough to remind Regina of his presence. "You will go nowhere with my son," she growls out, her hands flexing dangerously. Emma has no doubt that had Regina still her magic; Neal's life would be in serious jeopardy.

Neal tries for a disarming smile. "I'm just trying to –"

"Neal, I need you to leave," Emma cuts in, shifting her head slightly as several more raindrops hit her face. "I need you to leave now."

"No. No way. I'm not leaving you or him with her."

"Oh look, Miss Swan, you have a defender. Shame that he's the son of a coward," Regina states, eyes blazing darkly, nostrils flaring.

"Mom," Henry says, suddenly understanding that what's happening is much more than the usual parental arguments that he's used to between Emma and Regina. There's danger crackling in the air. And anger. A lot of it.

Emma ignores them both for the moment, her attention glued on her ex. "I'm not asking you, Neal; I'm telling you. Take the bag in the house for me, and then get in your car and go. You probably have about an hour before the storm really hits. You can make your way to a motel by then."

"But –"

"Go."

"All right." He holds up his hand. "But maybe I should take Henry –"

"If you touch my son, I will rip your throat out," Regina growls, stepping towards him. She's in sneakers, and far shorter than Neal, but even he's smart enough to be intimidated enough to step backwards.

"Mom," Henry says again, and now he's truly frightened. He'd seen his mother nearly kill his grandfather months ago, but this is more than that. The intensity of hatred that he feels rolling off of Regina is terrifying.

"Enough," Emma snaps. "Neal, now. Regina, chill the fuck out."

"How –"

"How dare I? How about this? You're scaring the shit out of our son. I dare because that's not what you want to do. So yes, Your Majesty, chill the fuck out," Emma answers, her own hands clenching tightly.

A strange look crosses Regina's darkened features – awareness, Emma thinks – and then suddenly the woman is stepping backwards.

"Good. Neal."

"Right. Bag and go."

"Exactly."

Her ex nods his head slowly. It's clear that he's not happy about this, but frankly, Emma could give a damn. The only reason she'd asked him to do this was because she'd known he would. She hadn't expected his timing to be so piss poor. She also hadn't anticipated Regina's reaction.

No, that's not quite right; she'd known that Regina would react badly to seeing Rumple's son. She just hadn't expected the response to be _so_ bad.

Regina never fails to surprise her.

Then again, perhaps this tantrum is tied to the one from this morning.

God, she hopes another kitchen knife isn't going to be hanging over her head tonight. She really could use a full eight hours of sleep.

She watches as Neal lifts the heavy punching bag from the trunk. It's massive, but he manages it well enough. Grunting, he carries it up the walk and into the house, and is back outside with them within two minutes.

Two minutes that were spent in awkward uncomfortable heavy silence.

With Henry – worried and wide-eyed Henry – looking desperately between his two mothers, wondering the whole while if his plan to save his adoptive mother from herself has just collapsed beneath his feet.

All because of a biological father that he barely knows.

"I can set it up for you," Neal offers, his hands jammed roughly into the pockets of his now damp jeans, the rain now flattening down his dark hair.

"No, I can do that. Thanks for bringing it, Neal," Emma tells him, her tone crisp enough to let him know that their business has concluded.

"Sure. When will I –"

"Neal."

"Right. You're sure?"

"You don't listen too well, do you, dear?" Regina notes, eyebrow up in a manner that screams Evil Queen. "You're unwanted here. Leave."

He starts to reply but gets stopped by a hard look from Emma. Instead, he puts up his hands in surrender. "This is a mistake," he tells Emma.

"It's not," she replies. "Be safe."

If she'd meant the words to suggest concern for him, her annoyed tone counteracts such. Instead, she looks more and more like she's holding onto her own temper by the very thinnest of threads. Truth is, she is.

"Yeah, okay." He hugs Henry quickly, ruffles his hair, and then with one last look back at Regina, gets into the car, fires it up and screeches away from the house, water and sand spinning up behind his wheels.

Emma turns to face the older woman. "Goddammit, Regina," she growls.

"Getting ahead of yourself, are you, Miss Swan? Were we back in my land, I would have had you –"

"Mom, stop," Henry begs, grabbing her hand and squeezing it as hard as he can manage. "Please. Come back to me."

She turns her head and looks at him, eyes wide. "Henry." It's almost as if she's now noticed that he's there and has seen everything. Her cheeks glow bright red, and her mouth gapes open in a truly undignified manner.

"It's just us," he assures her, and in that moment, Emma again is reminded of just how old a soul her son actually has. At times he's so young and childlike, and then in other moments, he seems to understand exactly the right words to say. A gift that he clearly didn't inherit from her.

"He's right," Emma offers. "Just us. Neal is gone. I promise you; all I asked him to do was drop off the bag. There's nowhere here in town to get one."

Their eyes meet, and then Regina says softly, "It's not just about Neal."

"Then what it is about?"

Regina turns towards Henry. "Go inside, dear; it's raining."

"You should come in with me."

"We will, kid," Emma tells him. "Just give us a couple minutes to talk. Why don't you go start up some hot chocolate; it's going to get cold tonight."

"You're not going to hurt each other, are you?"

And there's the child side of him again. It's another to startle both women.

"Oh, kid," Emma says because for a moment, other words fail her.

It's Regina who recovers first. "We'll both be inside in a moment, Henry. We're not going to hurt each other. I…we promise." She looks over at Emma as if to confirm this, and the blonde quickly nods her agreement.

"Okay." He casts them one last wary look and then heads inside, away from the icy cold rain, which is now starting to come down in slanted sheets.

"So out with it," Emma says after the door shuts and she's sure that it's just the two of them in the freezing rain. "Because this is the second time today that you've completely lost it. You have to know you're out of control."

"I do," the dark haired woman admits. It's a staggering confession, but more than that is the way she closes her eyes, once again ashamed. "Believe it or not, Miss Swan; I am almost always aware of my many shortcomings."

Emma considers offering the former queen reassurances, but the words die bitterly on her lips. Such statements wouldn't be received well, anyway. She knows that right now, Regina will simply see them as empty sentiment. And that's no use to either of them. So instead, "All right, then what is this all about? What was this morning about? The freak out with the clothes?"

"You really want to know?"

"It's wet and it's cold out here, Regina," Emma answers with more than a hint of frustration. "If I didn't want to know, I wouldn't have asked. And if I didn't want to hear what you have to say, I wouldn't be here because I got to tell you, you are pushing me about as hard as you can."

"And yet you're still here," Regina murmurs, as if she's surprised by her own words. And perhaps she is, her brow furrowing in thought.

"That should stand for something."

The brunette nods. "Fine." She steps towards Emma, then, and reaches out for her. For a moment, the sheriff goes completely rigid, all the while trying to remind herself that Regina no longer has the ability to take hearts. She feels hands settle over her hoodie, and then dip into the pockets of it.

"What are you –"

Regina pulls out a cell phone and holds it up. "Dr. Hopper."

And then it hits her with all of the impact of a linebacker. "Oh my God; you saw the voicemail from him this morning. That's what pissed you off."

"You want me to trust you," Regina says softly, hurt burning brightly her dark eyes. "But how can I trust someone who constantly takes away every bit of my free will? I've had more than enough of that in my life." Her lips seal shut, then, and it's clear that she intends to say no more on that.

At least for now.

Emma closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. She opens them again and shakes her head. "You're right; I fucked up. This is on me. I never meant – as off balance as you are, Regina, so am I. This kind of stuff is way over my head. At least I thought so. That's why I called Archie. Not to humiliate you or tell anyone about what we've talked about. I swear to God, Regina; I haven't repeated a word to anyone. Not even about the peppermint."

"So what did you talk to him about?"

"What you need. What I need. How we can help each other. I wasn't trying to take away your free will, especially not on this. This won't work if you're not part of it. We both know that. I just…I needed help, I guess."

"And Neal?"

"Is just the man who gave us Henry. But I'll tell you this: you need to let it go. Hate his father all you want, hell, hate him on my behalf but don't hate him because of what Rumple did to you in order to get to him. That's the one thing that's not on Neal." She smiles slightly, the look vaguely impish, "You can only have so many vengeance quests at a time, right?"

In spite of herself, Regina laughs. There's water running down her face, and her hair is flattened against her skull, but the mirth makes her light up.

"Exactly," Emma nods. "Now, can we go inside and get warmed up, and then maybe I can show you why I had Neal drive out here."

"Only if you answer a question for me."

"Shoot."

"What did Dr. Hopper tell you? How are you supposed to be able to help me not be the person that my son is afraid of?"

"He's not afraid of you, Regina. He's afraid of what you become when you lose control. Like you just did a few minutes ago."

"How?" Regina repeats, in no mood to be let off the hook.

"By being myself," Emma answers with an uncertain shrug of her shoulders. "As terrifying as that prospect is to both of us, and it is. Look, I've been trying to help you – help us - using a book on psychology and the internet, but here's the thing, Regina: neither you nor I make a goddamned bit of sense to anyone who is even vaguely sane. Books can't explain us. We've both been through too much and conventional ways won't help us."

"So what will?" Regina queries, suddenly sounding very old and tired, like the weight of the world has finally settled on her shoulders. For a moment, she feels every day of the sixty plus years that she actually is.

Which, of course, is where Emma Swan comes into the picture.

Emma's face breaks out into an abrupt grin that completely overtakes it. "Sometimes, Your Majesty, you just gotta hit the shit out of something."

An eyebrow arches gracefully. "Really?"

"Really. And after lunch, I'll show you exactly what I mean by that." She motions towards the house. "For now, though; shall we?"

In tandem, they start back towards the door, and are perhaps a dozen steps away from the steps up to the front deck when Regina reaches out and catches Emma's forearm, the touch light and uncertain. "Emma," she says.

The blonde sheriff turns to look at her, eyebrow up. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Everything. I…I am…"

"I know. And I am, too. I let you down there. You let me down afterwards. We both got to get over it or we are screwed. You got to trust me here."

"I don't know how to," Regina admits, taking her hand off of Emma and then turning to look away, her eyes fixed on the roof of Ruby's car.

"Well, that makes two of us. And I don't just mean in regards to you. So maybe we figure that out together, too. In for a penny, in for a pound."

Dark eyes track back, meeting hers, their breaths misting in front of them.

Finally, Regina nods.

"Good. And you're drinking hot chocolate with me and Henry."

"I don't –"

"Today, you do. With whipped cream even. Henry will like that." The last comment is said lightly, in a tone meant to be free of judgment.

But of course, it's still Regina.

"You really think whipped cream will make him not afraid of me."

"I think staying in control will do that. Whipped cream will just remind him that his mother knows how to let loose and have fun every now and again."

"Whipped cream is your idea of fun?"

"Well, it can be." Emma coughs, then. "Forget I said that."

"Of course."

"And hey, maybe tomorrow you have some bacon. I know you don't actually hate it. Henry told me you used to eat it all the time."

"I did," Regina admits.

"You're letting him have yours?"

"It's not any kind of sacrifice, Miss Swan," the brunette reminds her.

"No, but it's kind of sweet."

Regina smiles at that, and for once, just accepts the compliment.

* * *

They enter the house together, virtually side-by-side, the both of them looking like drowned rats. Henry looks up from his position behind the kitchen counter, eyes hopeful. "Everything all right?"

"All good, kid," Emma confirms.

His eyes sweep to Regina, and she offers him a small sad smile.

"As Miss – as Emma said, we're…good. And Henry? I…" she takes a breath, and Emma wonders for a moment if it's easier or harder to say these words to Henry. "I'm sorry for letting you down again," Regina finally says.

"I forgive you," he tells her almost immediately, and Emma thinks she hears Regina gasp in surprise. It occurs to her that the brunette has very seldom heard these words – words that mean more than most ever could. "Just trust us," he continues, his green eyes gazing directly back at her.

"I do," she tells him, and it's clear to Emma that for now, Regina means just him. And that's okay because trust between adults takes time.

Especially when the two adults have hurt each other as they have.

She thinks back to her conversation with Archie from earlier in the morning. He'd told her to have faith in herself, to believe in her own methods.

He'd told her to trust in how she'd made it to where she is.

Not quite fixed, but not exactly broken, either.

Her eyes drift over to the heavy bag lying on its side on the ground. There's a bit of gray tape across the lower part of it, and some wearing near the top, but it'll more than serve its purpose for the two of them.

Her hands flex, her knuckles cracking.

She thinks that she's going to enjoy this.

She's pretty damned sure Regina will.

A smile slides across her face.

Balance, she thinks. It's all about regaining control and keeping balance.

And trust.

All in time.

**TBC...**

* * *

Next up: How to take out queenly rage on a punching bag. Therapy via controlled violence. Oh, yes.


	9. 7

**A/N:** I deeply appreciate the kind feedback, suggestions and words of encouragement. Theyhave been quite gratifying. Thanks!

Warnings: Some mild violence of the training nature, and talk of difficult subjects from Emma's childhood.

Please enjoy!

* * *

There's something insanely and almost absurdly comical about watching the notorious Evil Queen attempting to figure out how to eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with grace and dignity. The dark haired woman eats it delicately, her fingers pinched ever so lightly around the soft white bread. It takes her several moments to bring the food to her mouth, but when she finally does bite down, a strange expression flitters across her features – something that looks like an almost childish form of delight – before she seems to catch it, and then she abruptly slams her typical mask back into place.

Emma knows that she should let it go, but she simply can't. A wide smile lifting her pale pink lips, the blonde woman asks between sips of her hot chocolate (Regina's own cup is still sitting untouched in front of her, the mountain of whipped cream that had once sat atop it having long ago melted into the warm dark liquid within the coffee mug), "Have you honestly never had a PB&J sandwich before?"

"No, I most certainly have not," Regina replies haughtily, like it should be so very obvious. "And to be quite plain, Miss Swan, I'm not sure why I'm having one now, either." She turns the sandwich over in her hands, gazing at it with a raised eyebrow and a disgruntled frown.

Emma and Henry had made lunch which means that the sandwiches are messy and jelly is dribbling out of the sides of it, purple and sticky and damned if she doesn't look perturbed by this. She probably is, Emma imagines; it's hard to think that Regina has ever made anything that looks quite this ridiculous and catastrophic. Nor tastes quite as simplistically good.

"Because it was Henry's turn to choose lunch," Emma answers with a shrug of her shoulders. She glances over at Henry, who grins at her. He then motions to her lips13 with his finger, and she quickly reaches up and wipes jelly away from the corner of her mouth. Another shrug, and her son is practically giggling, his eyes sparkling.

It warms her heart, and she's certain that it does the same for Regina.

"Well, then, I'm suppose I should be pleased that we're not eating Twinkies," the brunette comments between absurdly dainty mouthfuls of her own overfilled sandwich. The words are said with typical bite, but the tone is surprisingly light. Enough so that Emma feels her smile widening.

"We considered it, but honestly, we wanted to save those for dessert," Emma chuckles. "By the way, a big bite won't hurt you. Promise."

"Mm. This is children's food," Regina shoots back, her eyes flickering around the kitchen. Because of all of the oversized windows in this house, it's easy to watch the rain pouring down outside. It's just a little after two in the afternoon, but it might as well be night for as dark and gloomy as it.

"Yep," Henry nods, grinning at her from across the table. "They serve it at school. If you're wondering where I got a liking for it."

"Yes, well, of course they do," Regina responds, and something dark and unsettling slides across her face as if she's remembering exactly who it was who likely introduced her son to this kind of sandwich. The former mayor had always been meticulous about her meals, providing only the healthiest ones available. Peanut butter and jelly had absolutely been out thanks to the high sugar content.

Mary Margaret had, however, had other ideas. As always.

She wonders if a few peanut butter and jelly sandwiches served at home before the book had come into her life might have changed everything.

Would a little more sugar have made Henry love her more?

"Sometimes it's nice to be a child," Emma states, pulling her from her quickly darkening thoughts.

"When are you not a child, Sheriff?" Regina drawls, blinking rapidly to refocus herself on the aggravating blonde woman sitting across from her.

"Fair point, but you have to admit, Your Majesty, it sure as hell seems like I have a lot more fun than you do." The comment is said lightly, gently.

And it's absolutely the truth, and they both know it.

"Lately anyway," Regina sighs as she finishes the sandwich. She reaches for the napkin, wipes her hand and then looks up at Emma, her chin raised up. "All right, then, let's get on with this ridiculous punching thing of yours."

Emma snorts in response. "Way to embrace it one hundred percent."

"Oh, my dear, I very much plan to," Regina assures her with a large utterly fake smile. "Especially if it allows me to…" she trails off and turns the smile to Henry. It's when she does this – as if remembering that he won't approve of the comment that she'd been about to make – that Emma sees the way the skin around Regina's eyes crinkles as if suggesting that she's in pain.

Emma wonders if the former mayor is having yet another of her migraines. She's been watching Regina over the last week – ever since the woman's confession about taking aspirin for headaches – and she's noticed that whenever there's tension or stress, the squinting begins and the pain likely starts.

Today has been a hell of a day for stress and tension thanks to Archie and Neal and misunderstandings galore. It's time to bring things down a bit.

"Right," Emma says with a nod. "And I promise you that you will, but I need to get the bag set up first. Which will take time."

"Time," Regina repeats as a hand lifts up towards her temple and then stops, her eyes still on Henry. She's watching him, ensuring that he doesn't see what Emma does. Ensuring that he doesn't see her weakness.

The slight frown and frozen hand is enough to confirm her suspicions about Regina suddenly dealing with a quickly on-rushing migraine.

"Right, time," Emma confirms. "And if it's all the same to you, Regina, I'd prefer to do it without you making smartass comments the whole time. So why don't you go chill out on the couch for a bit. I found some books in the study. A few of them looked like your type," she suggests, her expression completely neutral, like she's trying to hide whatever intent she might have.

"I doubt the…owner of this house has the same taste in literature that I do," Regina answers with something that sounds a whole lot like a sniff. To her credit, she doesn't add anything jerkish to the end of the statement. Well, maybe she is growing. Or maybe Henry being in the room had stilled her hand and her typically sharp tongue. Either way, Emma's thankful not to be reminded yet again of why it is that they have this house to stay in. No matter the truth of said comments.

"You might be surprised," Emma answers with a careless shrug of her shoulders and a small smile. "Looks like a lot of true crime stuff."

"Perhaps, then. Though, I think I'd prefer to read in the bedroom," Regina counters, her voice cool and controlled. "I really have no desire to hear you cursing as you fumble putting up the bag. I do, however, ask that you try to restrain yourself in front of my…in front of Henry. Please."

"Of course," Emma grins, and there's something else there. Something that looks a whole lot like maybe Emma knows exactly why Regina is choosing to retreat to her bedroom instead of the Living Room. She also knows exactly why Regina is hiding behind coolly delivered insults and Henry – because it's easier than accepting that someone might actually understand what she's going through right now.

Because even a little bit of understanding is a whole lot of terrifying.

"Excellent," Regina says, standing up. "Well then, I'll be in the bedroom reading if…well that's where I'll be." She offers the smallest of smiles – the look vaguely sheepish and uncertain, like she's not quite sure what she's supposed to do or say after the two tantrums that she's already thrown today – and then turns and walks away, down the hall towards her bedroom.

"Is she okay?" Henry asks, his voice quiet.

"Yeah, she's okay. Just a headache," Emma tells him, and it's mostly the truth. Enough of it, anyway, for him to accept her words with a nod. "So," she continues. "You ready to help me get this thing set up, kid?"

"You mean the punching bag?"

"The bag," she repeats, lifting her eyebrow comically. "The bag."

"You're a dork," he tells her, shaking his head. She has a flash of what he might be like a few years from now when he's a teenager and being the Savior isn't nearly as cool. She imagines that even she will have to deal with her rapidly growing child thinking she's something of a weirdo.

Well, she reasons, she's that now anyway so why not later as well?

"Yeah, well maybe, but you're my son," she counters before reaching out to tickle him on the ribcage. "So, what's that make you?"

He breaks away from her, gets some distance to ensure she can't attack again, and then answers with, "Not a dork like you."

"Nice," she laughs as she reaches out and pushes against his shoulder with the knuckles of her hand. "Real nice. You really are the son of the Evil Queen, aren't you?"

A strange look flickers across his face and when it's gone a moment later, she's reminded of how that same thing had occurred with Regina just a few minutes earlier. She wonders just how much Henry has learned about how to hide his feelings and thoughts away. She wonders if he understands masks.

"Henry?" she prompts. "What's going on in there?"

"Nothing," he replies after a moment. "Can I hit the bag once it's up, too?"

"Yeah," she answers with a thin smile. "But one step at a time."

He meets her eyes, and it occurs to her that they're having separate conversations here – or at least moving in and out of a couple different ones. "As long as it gets up," he says, his voice low and intense.

She stares at him and he at her, and she wonders what it is that she's supposed to say here. How does she say the words that he needs to hear to believe that everything will work out as it's supposed to?

Thankfully, he doesn't need the words yet because after a moment, his smile returns and his eyes are dancing again and he's jumping back towards her and racing towards the heavy bag, which still lies on its side.

And she follows after him.

Which is what she's been doing since the day she gave birth to him.

* * *

Turns out that Henry's idea of helping her to set up the heavy bag – which they do in the massive empty garage on the side of the house – is to sit on an upside down paint bucket and comment on how not centered the bag is. The door leading to the outside is hanging wide open, allowing for cool crisp air to drift through the room, which is a good thing considering how sweat drenched Emma is after having moved the bag for the third time.

He's so Regina's son, she grouses to herself as he tells her once more that there's too much room on one side, and not nearly enough on the other. After all, he reminds her with a mischievous grin, the Internet says that there should be plenty of space to swing around and for the bag to do the same.

She sighs, moves it a few inches (causing the four-ended chain harnessing the bag to jingle in protest) and looks at him. "Better?" Up above, she can hear rain pelting against the metal roof of the garage, the sound comfortably rhythmic and oddly soothing.

"Better," he nods.

"Finally," comes her grunted response as she steps back and away. She lifts her hand up and swipes sweat away with the back of her palm. She's dressed in running shorts and a gray tank, the dip of it soaked through with perspiration thanks to the exertion of moving the bag from spot to spot.

"Should we go get mom?" he asks as he gazes up at the swaying bag.

"Not yet. I think she's taking a nap," Emma tells him as she drops a hand against the bag to steady it. She keeps her palm there, leaning lightly against it.

"She does that a lot."

Frowning, Emma turns to face him. "She does?"

"She doesn't think I notice, but yeah. After I brought you to Storybrooke, she'd disappear into her office a lot at night. She'd tell me she was working, but sometimes I'd look in and see her sleeping on the couch with her arm over her eyes like she was trying to make the room darker."

"Henry, do you know what migraines are?" Emma asks him after a few long seconds of her son staring at her. His look is so expectant, so sure that she has all of the answers. It's more than a little unsettling.

"They're headaches, right?"

"Yeah. Really bad ones. And they can be triggered by a lot of things, but stress is a big one. Which me coming to town definitely created. But I'm guessing there was some stress before I showed up, too, though, right?"

He nods his head.

"Why did she send you to Archie? Before the book, I mean."

"She said so I could have someone to talk to."

"Why couldn't you talk to her?"

"She wanted me to be perfect." He looks away. "And I wasn't."

"None of us are, kid. Not me, not her. None of us. And her wanting you to be perfect doesn't mean she ever loved you any less because you weren't it. She may not have been able to listen to what you were trying to say to her back then, but even then, she knew that you needed someone to talk to."

"Until the book came and she tried to make me think I was crazy."

"She panicked. That doesn't make it right, but…"

"I know," he tells her. "And I get it. I mean I think I do. And I do know that she loves me. And I do love her. She's mom. I just…why can't she control her anger like you do? Why isn't she good just because like you are?"

Emma laughs. It's loud and not especially humorous, and perhaps the almost hysterical tinge he hears is enough to cause him alarm because his eyebrows shoot into his hairline and a frown spreads across his young features.

"Emma?"

"Oh, kid," she says with a dismayed shake of her head. "No one is good just because they are. Especially not me. I know you want to believe that and you know what? So do I, but it's just not true. Your mom wasn't born bad and I sure as hell wasn't born good no matter what anyone thinks or what anyone tells you. _Life_ is what makes people who they are, not birth."

"But you control your anger. She doesn't. She…"

"I know. Trust me, I know what she's done and what she's capable of. But I also know that controlling your anger and stopping yourself from doing terrible things isn't as easy as it seems. When you're an adult, sometimes you feel things that…" she stops for a moment, rolling over the words in her head. She can well imagine that this isn't a conversation that Regina would want her to have with Henry, but it occurs to Emma that maybe it's one that should have been had a very long time ago. "Sometimes you feel things that tear you apart inside. They hurt, Henry. They make you feel like everything is bad and you're bad and nothing will ever feel good again."

"Like a Dementor?"

She thinks about this for a moment. It's normal for him to try to understand all of this using familiar terms and such. He's a child who has just learned that most of the cautionary literature that he grew up on is either true or has elements of truth within the stories that he knows so well. It's completely natural for him to gravitate back to his books when he's stumped on adult issues such as pain and rage.

"Kind of," she nods. "But worse. When a Dementor is nearby, people feel like there's no hope and everything is cold and bad, right?"

"Right."

"Well, sometimes for adults, that's real life but what's worse is that sometimes you do things to have caused that. Your mom has done a whole lot of thngs, and she's trying to come to terms with those things and that things that others have done to hurt her as well. It's not easy and the anger and feeling like nothing you do matters can be…it can make everything inside of you feel awful."

"So what do you do?" he asks, his voice so young and innocent.

"You focus on the good parts of your life and you look for ways to feel better and to feel like everything might be okay. And sometimes, if you're very lucky, you have someone there to pull you back from the edge and stop you from doing those things that you'll regret. And sometimes, even when you don't have that, you have something happen to you that makes you understand that the person you've become isn't the person you've ever wanted to be."

"Is that what happened to you?" he asks her. His eyes are on her and it seems as though he's absorbing everything she's saying to him, but she can't help but wonder how much of this he can possibly understand. She has eighteen years of hard-lived life on him and she barely gets it.

"You happened to me, Henry," she tells him softly. "You coming into my life changed everything. It changed who I was and who I am."

"Why can't I do that for her?"

"You have," she assures him. "But nothing happens overnight, and what your mom has been through, well…I've been through a lot, but she..." She stops again, wondering how much she's supposed to tell him, and wondering just how bad Regina will freak out when she finds out. "Henry, your mom has been hurt very badly in her life. And by a lot of people who should have been there for her including her own mother. That doesn't justify what she's done, but I'll tell you something I figured out: life isn't all about justifying. Sometimes it's about understanding and realizing that what you think you know is only half of the story. There's more to me than you know, and there's certainly more to Regina than either of us know."

"Well that's why we're here, right?" he says, motioning around.

"Exactly. We're here because your mom needs somewhere where she can breathe for a few minutes and no one is going to hurt her."

"But she doesn't trust us."

"She doesn't trust me," Emma corrects. "If you told her that the sky was purple, she'd believe you without a second thought. Me, on other hand, well I'm one of the people who hurt her. What happened with Archie –"

"So we fix it," he interrupts, nodding his head sharply, resolutely.

She laughs. "Yeah, we fix it. That's the plan, anyway," she confirms.

He jumps up off of the bucket and crosses over to the bag, reaching out to touch it. "Will you teach me?" he asks as he pushes at it.

"Of course."

"And if I ever get as angry as she is –"

"You won't," Emma assures him. "I can't promise you that you won't ever have anger or hurt in your life. Neither your mom nor I can protect you from everything bad in the world, but we can sure as hell be there to stop you from falling. Believe it or not, kid, you _are_ one of the lucky ones; you have two mothers who love you more than anything in the world and will do anything to make sure that you are always happy and loved. So when the time comes and you need us, we will be there for you. Both of us."

"You promise?"

"I do," Emma tells him before sweeping down to press a kiss to his brow. It's an oddly affectionate gesture for a woman who is far more comfortable with rough one-armed hugs and awkward tickle fits, but they both allow it.

And then, because the moment is too long and too intense, Henry says, "Cool. So do I get to tape my hands up?" He jabs at the air as he speaks.

She laughs. "If you want."

"Do I have to?" a voice drawls from the open door of the garage.

The two of them look up to see Regina standing in the doorway, wearing a plain gray hoodie over loose sweatpants. The look is completely wrong for her but Emma would be lying if she didn't admit at least to herself that her eyes had taken in the dressed down casual clothing of the former queen with more than a little bit of appreciation. Well, some women look beautiful in anything, Emma reasons, and Regina Mills is certainly one of those women.

The former mayor steps towards them, winding a hand through her slightly damp hair as she does so. The garage is about fifteen feet away from the main house, which means that Regina had had to step out into the elements to make her way over. It's a good look on her, though. Oddly natural.

"Well, I'm guessing you'll be hitting the bag a hell of a lot harder than he would be so preferably, yes," Emma notes. She doesn't ask the other question running through her mind which is, "How long have you been there?" because it doesn't matter; everything she'd said to Henry had been the truth and she would hope that Regina would recognize it as such. Instead, she asks, "How was the book?"

The two women share a look – one that suggests that they both understand that Regina had actually been sleeping as opposed to reading. The brunette, after a moment, inclines her head slightly as if to say thank you for the consideration, and then answers with, "Quiet."

"I bet. Which reminds me, I picked you up some tea when I went shopping yesterday. Peppermint," Emma says with a slight knowing smile.

"Peppermint is good for headaches," Henry offers up helpfully, his look innocent and unaware. He has no idea that his exact words had just been said by Emma to his adopted mother without ever actually being said.

"Yes," Regina says after a moment. "Indeed, it is. Thank you, Miss Swan."

"Sure. You about ready to try the bag out?"

"If it'll shut you up about it, then yes," Regina responds with a sigh that's meant to let everyone know that she's going along with this simply because there's nothing else to do. "But let's hurry up; I have to get dinner started soon."

* * *

Lesson one, which is more for Henry's benefit than Regina's, is simply about preparation. It's about control, and the whole time that Emma is speaking, Regina is wondering if controlled violence is what she wants or needs right about now, because yeah as it turns out, she really does want to hit something about as hard as she can.

"Miss Swan," Regina interrupts after the third time of watching Emma show Henry how to do an exaggerated knees-bent position. "When do I get to actually hit the bag or is this all about watching you look like you need to use the bathroom?"

Emma chuckles. "After dinner," she says. "I just wanted to ensure everyone knows the basics of how. Tonight, you can hit it as hard as you want."

"Mm. I suppose that will have to suffice," Regina responds, sounding as though she doesn't really care one way or another. A cocked eyebrow from Emma lets the brunette know that the sheriff sees right through her pretense of indifference. It's fairly annoying, but Regina lets it pass.

"So what's for dinner?" Henry asks, almost like he can tell that something is building again. He's well aware of the fact that there's already been two knock down fights between his mothers today; he's not in the mood for another one even if this seems more like poking than arguing.

"I was thinking maybe spaghetti," Regina answers before adding an uncertain: "Does…does that sound good to you?"

"Yeah! Can I help?"

"You…you want to?" she asks, and it rather breaks Emma's heart just how hopeful and surprised the older woman sounds.

"Course," he replies. "You've just never let me."

"No, I haven't," she says with realization suddenly burning in her dark eyes. She bends down towards him, meeting him at eye level. When she speaks, she lowers her voice. She knows that Emma can hear her, but it doesn't matter; these words are for Henry. "So how about we change that?"

"I'd like that."

"Me, too," she replies, and realizes then that she actually means it. She reaches for him, allowing for a small watery smile when he doesn't flinch from the contact. Her fingers settle over his shoulder and she squeezes.

She keeps his eyes the whole time.

And what she sees there is acceptance and understanding.

And maybe even love.

It's confusing and terrifying and the dark and ugly voices inside of her head are telling her not to believe what she sees, but it's Henry and she refuses not to believe in him. She refuses not to hope that he _could_ love her.

She simply refuses because yes, love is weakness.

But it's hers.

* * *

For the first hour or so, it's just Regina and Henry standing over the massive pot of spaghetti sauce, the two of them huddled close together as they add in ingredients.

The whole time they're working together on dinner, Regina is patiently explaining everything that's going into the sauce to Henry. It seems as though initially, she does this to put him at ease, to ensure that he doesn't worry that she is poisoning him. However, as she begins to realize that he actually is interested in what she's doing, it becomes educational instead and the two of them even begin to look as though they're enjoying doing this together.

It's utterly heartwarming, and Emma can't stop grinning as she watches.

This goes on for a while, until finally they both step back to let the sauce cook. "Nice work," Regina says softly, her hand rested on Henry's shoulder.

"Thanks," he grins. "That was fun."

"It was," she agrees, moving her hand to cup his cheek.

Emma watches all of this from the stool on the opposite side of the counter, a bottle of beer in her hand. She smiles when she sees the wonder in Henry's eyes and the pure happiness shining in Regina's.

"Miss Swan?" she hears, and looks up to see Regina gazing at her.

"Would you like to help?" the older woman asks. There's an odd look in her eyes, a kind of strange uncertainly, like maybe she's not sure that she wants to be extending this offer. Like maybe she'd prefer to keep these moments between just she and Henry and not involve his other mother.

But one look over at Henry, and both women know exactly what they'll say next because they know exactly what he wants. He wants his family together, and he considers these two women to be that.

"You already know how badly I cook," Emma reminds her between sips.

"I do, but I presume you can toss a salad. Yes?"

"I think I can manage that. Yes."

"Excellent. Well, we're still a bit away from that, but once I start making the spaghetti itself, you can begin on the salad. No radishes, though; Henry is terribly allergic and I'm not terribly fond of them, either."

"He is?" Emma queries, leaning it. It seems a strange thing to be interested in, but it occurs to her that she really doesn't have a clue about Henry's medical history. So much of his life occurred before she'd come into the picture and the only people who really know it all are the ones in this kitchen. More specifically, the woman standing across from her.

"I am," Henry confirms with the kind of smile that lets her know that he finds the whole thing kind of awesome in retrospect. "Blew up like a balloon when I was seven." He makes a motion with his hands and blows airs into his cheeks to make them look like he's a chipmunk squirreling away nuts.

"Yes. Thank God that Dr. Whale has some value," Regina drawls, clearly not nearly as amused. "Now, do you understand the instructions I've provided to you, Miss Swan?" Her eyebrow is arched, and she's clearly teasing.

"That I do, Your Majesty," Emma replies with an impish grin.

Regina laughs. It's beautiful and for a moment, it's easy to forget just how much pain the three people in this room share and how much they don't.

* * *

Considering the day that they've all had, dinner is a quiet and lovely affair. The spaghetti is fantastic and even the salad manages to be worthwhile.

The conversation is light and easy, focused almost entirely on Henry and Regina's wood fort. He tells his mothers of his plans to turn it into the greatest castle ever built. He speaks of doing so with such admirable enthusiasm that neither Regina nor Emma has the heart to tell him that this storm – which is now slanting sideways and blowing gusts of wind and rain against the reinforced glass windows of the house - has likely washed the wood back into the water.

This isn't a night for hard truths like that.

Not yet, at least.

* * *

He's a smart boy. Smart enough to know that his mothers need some time alone. It's been a rough day and there's still much to deal with. He's hopeful that the quieter moments of the day signify progress, but he's seen enough over the last week to understand that these things will take time.

Healing – even if he doesn't exactly understand it as such - takes time.

At around eight that night, he lifts his arms up into the air and yawns loudly. "Tired," he tells them even though his bedtime isn't for another hour yet. They're sitting in the living room, Regina in one of the chairs reading and he and Emma playing their third game of checkers.

Emma lifts an eyebrow, like she knows exactly what he's doing, but Regina buys into it completely, her brow wrinkling in concern as she leans towards him "Are you not feeling well, dear?" Emma gets the impression that if Regina were closer to him, she'd be touching Henry's forehead. It's an odd reminder of the strong maternal instincts that the older woman – in spite of her violent past – has in abundance.

Ones that she herself is still scrapping and clawing to find.

"I'm okay," he assures her with a slight smile. "Just sleepy. Besides, Emma's supposed to be showing you how to use the bag."

"Yes, I suppose she is. And you don't want to be around to watch that?"

"I don't think I'm supposed to be," he tells her in the voice he uses when he's saying something obvious. "I mean, this is kind of like your talks on the porch at night, right? And I'm not supposed to know that you guys are doing that so this is me pretending I don't know about this, either."

Emma groans. "Go brush your teeth."

He wriggles his eyebrows in amusement, sticks out his tongue, and then jumps up from his chair. "By the way," he says. "I was about to beat you."

She looks down at the board and scowls. "No, you weren't."

"He was," Regina comments, her eyes flickering across the playing board. "In three moves if I'm reading the board correctly. And don't make that face unless you want it to stick there permanently." She says the last sentence with the kind of flippancy a mom casually uses, but just the same, Emma feels appropriately chastised enough to immediately alter her expression to a far more neutral one. One that she could handle being stuck with forever.

"You know how to play checkers?" Emma asks, a bit awkwardly, and just to change the subject away from her rapidly changing facial expressions.

Apparently, it's completely the wrong thing to say because a look of sadness crosses her face before Regina says in a very low voice, "Well, I did raise him, Miss Swan so yes, I am aware of the child's game of checkers."

"Right. Of course you are. Teeth, Henry."

He looks from mother to mother, frowns but then exits the room.

"I didn't mean anything by that," Emma insists, once he's gone.

"I know."

"I guess I just always saw you as a chess person instead."

"You would be correct. Chess was the game my mother taught me."

"Personally?"

"Of course not. My father was the one who showed me how to play." She glances down at her book and flips a page, but it's quite clear that she's not actually reading anymore.

"Right. Well now that I've stuck my foot in my mouth in true Emma Swan fashion, how about we put our kid to bed and go hit the bag for a while. After the day we've both had, I could use a few swings, too."

"The day you had?"

"Believe it or not, I have no more desire to see Neal than you do. I just needed him to bring the bag to me. I honestly could have gone the rest of my life without ever seeing him again. I still could."

"And you're telling me this because?"

"Because you still don't believe me when I tell you that hurting you or betraying your trust is the last thing I want to do."

"Why is that, Miss Swan? Why is it the last thing you'd want to do? Because if our situations were reversed, it'd be the very first thing I'd consider."

"I honestly don't know," Emma admits. "I just know it's the truth."

"Interesting. I thought you were about to tell me that you're a good person and good people don't do that," Regina comments, her tone dry.

"But we both know I'm not a good person, don't we, Regina?" Emma presses, and there's honesty flaring in her eyes. "We both know that there are very few actual good people in the world. Really good people."

Their eyes meet, and for a moment, a strange look comes over Regina; it seems as though she's about to burst into tears. It seems as though she's just been told something that hurts her even worse than someone telling her that she's not a good person. She shakes her head, then.

"There are good people," she insists, snapping her book shut as she does.

"Why? Why does there have to be?" Emma counters. It's strange, her playing this role, the devil's advocate to a degree. She supposes that she's trying to make a point here, and she imagines that Regina knows it.

All the same, the brunette answers honestly, quietly, "Because I don't want my son growing up in a world where there are no good people. I want…I need him to find happiness and love and…well, he already has me, Miss Swan. He deserves better than that. He deserves to have…"

She shakes her head, then, and reaches for the glass of wine that's been sitting next to her for the last hour. She's barely sipped it, but now she practically guzzles it down, her eyes closing as she swallows the alcohol.

"Regina," Emma starts, and then stops because she has no idea what else to say. She swallows roughly, painfully and wonders if there are words for the kinds of doubts and self-loathing that exists within the former mayor.

She's always thought of herself as being worth very little, but one look over at Regina and the way she's tightly holding herself together, an arm around her own waist, and Emma knows for a fact that her own self-image is downright healthy comparatively.

Thankfully, Regina chooses to change the subject. "You really think that hitting that bag of yours will help?" she asks, her voice a bit shaky. Her eyes are dark, like her thoughts are a swirl of pain and loss.

Like she's somewhere lost in the nightmare that is her past.

"I think that at this point, it can't possibly hurt."

"You would be surprised what can end up hurting you when you least expect it," Regina tells her. "I thought Henry would be the one thing…well. The things you love the most." She looks away then, swallowing hard.

It takes Emma everything she has not to reach out and touch the older woman, not to offer the comfort that Regina clearly so desperately needs.

Instead, "I know, but trust me; this _will_ help."

"And if it doesn't?"

"It will."

"You're so sure of this," Regina comments, making a sniffing noise to show her uncertainty and lack of belief in Emma's plan.

The blonde simply shrugs her shoulders in response. "It helped me."

"And we're the same, dear?"

"Sometimes. Sometimes no. In this, though, I think so."

* * *

"There are rules," Emma says once it's just the two of them standing in the garage, one of them on each side of the massive heavy bag.

"Of course there are."

"Rule number one," Emma states as she leans forward and presses a hand against the bag. They're both in sweats and tanks, and though it's rather chilly now thanks to the cold air outside, the blonde has assured her that once the workout begins, they'll both heat up quickly enough to think that even those clothes are too much. "You never hit the bag to hurt yourself."

"I have no idea what you mean by that."

"Try bullshitting someone else, Regina; I know you too well."

"So you think," comes the dry response. She flicks her hand in the air almost dismissively. "But please, go on."

"This kind of workout is about exercise and channeling emotions. You don't do it to hurt yourself. You do it to give yourself a way to work through your issues, not to punish yourself." She hits the bag then, somewhat lightly. It swings around in the air, circling slightly before lazily swaying back and forth.

"Punish the bag, not myself. Got it." She might as well be rolling her eyes, but to her credit, it's just her voice she utilizes to show her disinterest in the "rules".

"Rule number two: always use handwraps or gloves. We don't have any gloves here yet but Neal did bring some wraps for us." She points over to a box sitting on the ground. "I'll try to order us some gloves online, but until then, these will do well enough."

"And the point of them?"

"To keep us from getting hurt. Which ties into rule number one."

"Mm. I'm not sure I'm understanding the stress relief part of this."

"You will. Rule number three, do it long enough to break a sweat but not long enough to –"

"Hurt myself. Right. You've made your point, Miss Swan."

"Good, then I think we're ready. Let's get you wrapped up."

* * *

She can't stop looking at her hands, and it's almost comical because there's a degree of disgust in her expression. She's a Queen and this is so far beneath her that it's almost unthinkable. Queens do not box. Certainly, she was taught how to use a dagger for self-protection and she does know how to throw a punch, but this is something far different. This is common.

This is almost base.

"So we'll start with a light workout," Emma says, pulling her attention back up the blonde woman, whose hands have also been wrapped. Emma's pulled her hair back and away from her face. She's standing right next to the bag, an arm against it. "You want to go first."

"Fine," Regina says because anything else will lead to more discussion.

She steps towards the bag, takes a breath and then throws her fist against it about as hard as she can. There's no poetry in the motion, and no satisfaction because all she feels is a burst of pain through her knuckles.

"Ow," she growls.

"Yeah, first time isn't easy."

Regina's eyes snap up, and a thousand thoughts go through her mind, almost none of them about boxing or hitting a punching bag.

If Emma sees this, though, she doesn't let on. Instead, she steps forward and says, "Can I show you…can I maybe…"

"Yes, show me," Regina sighs, not because she really wants Emma to touch her as she so clearly is about to, but because the blonde's desperate attempts at asking for permission are almost pathetic and unbearable.

Emma moves even closer, reaching out then to take Regina's right hand into her own. She folds her fingers around Regina's and squeezes them.

"Okay, so make a fist. A normal one. But don't squeeze and keep your thumb out. When you swing at the bag, be careful not to tense up until you actually hit it. You want the impact to be purposeful not painful."

"Like this?" Regina asks, doing exactly as instructed.

"Yeah, exactly. So next comes the footwork. I…uh…can I put my hands on your waist?" She offers a small shy smile when asks this.

"Quickly."

Emma nods and then slides her hands down, settling them on Regina's hips. "Legs apart, feet right in front of your shoulders." She slides a foot between Regina's and taps both ankles to encourage the movement. She supposes that she could have just provided the instruction from a distance, but honestly, this is easier. It's also how she'd learned to do it. "Point your left foot towards the bag. Right one should be here. And bend your knees like so. Okay, yeah, good. Perfect. I think you're ready to try again."

She steps away then, and nods her head.

Regina takes another breath and then thrusts her right hand out. It hits the bag solidly, and while there is some reverberation up her arm, the pain is significantly less. She follows it up with another jab and then another.

"See?"

"Mm," Regina answers, because she's not willing to give in quite so easily. "Tell me, Miss Swan, where did you pick this up?"

"That's a...well, not great story."

"Ah."

"But it's one I'll tell you if you tell me something in return."

"So this is like our wine therapy with a punching bag."

"Sure."

"Fine."

"Don't agree too quickly," Emma cautions, reaching out to stop the bag from swinging. "My story is about some of the shit I went through growing up. Not an easy time for me. If I tell you it, I want something in return. I want you to answer any question – just one – that I ask. Do we have a deal?"

"What makes you think I care enough about your past to offer you that?"

"Nothing. So it's your choice completely. We can just work out and hit the bag for a while and that's fine or we can hit the bag and talk. Your call."

"I don't wish to speak about my mother," Regina says softly.

"Then we won't," Emma agrees. "That's off the table. For now, anyway."

"Fine; I agree to your deal."

Emma blows out air. "Good. Good." She slides behind the bag and wraps her arms around it. She can't imagine that Regina will hit hard enough just yet to be able to need someone to steady the bag, but it gives her something to do while she talks about a past that she'd rather forget.

"So?" Regina prompts.

"Keep hitting and I'll...just give me a minute."

The older woman gazes at her for a moment, opens her mouth to say something, and then snaps it shut and instead reaches out and jabs the bag. It's light and the bag barely moves, but Emma still feels it.

Enough to make her start speaking.

"I was a little bit over sixteen and in my third home within a year. The social workers had me pinned as difficult, argumentative and uncooperative."

"About right," Regina comments between jabs.

"Yeah, figured you'd say that. By the way, you hit like a girl, Your Majesty. Tell me you have something more than that in there." She motions towards Regina. "So much anger and all you can do is slap at the bag?"

Regina rolls her eyes and then delivers a hard enough punch to actually move the bag a little bit.

"Better," Emma nods. "Remember, you did cold cock me in the face a few months back; I know you can hit when you want to."

"Want is the operative word," Regina counters. "And I wanted to do a whole lot more than punch you there. I was…well you took something from me. If I could have killed you then, I might have."

"But you didn't, and perhaps we shouldn't talk about him just yet."

"Graham?" Regina says, swallowing thickly.

Emma nods.

"You know what I did," Regina says, lifting her head. "I can't take it back."

"I know. Do you regret it?"

"It's one of the two things I've ever done that I _do_ regret."

"And the other?"

"I believe you owe me a story first, Miss Swan."

"I do. Hit harder."

"Are you sure that you're not the one who should be hitting the bag?"

"I'll have my turn," Emma assures her. She tightens her arms around the bag again, and in doing so, causes the lean muscles in her arms to ripple. It takes Regina a bit by surprise because although she's always appreciated that Emma is an attractive woman, she's never noticed her strength.

Not like this anyway.

She shakes her head and returns her attention back to the bag.

One hard punch and then another.

Perhaps she could take a liking to this after all.

"So," she prompts. "You were sixteen."

"And antisocial as all hell," Emma chuckles. "The parents I was with had six other foster kids, but they were one of the rare ones who tried to care. They were stressed out and always going in six directions, but they really did try. Especially my foster father. His name was Jim. He had red hair that never stayed combed and he always looked like he was trying to pull it out."

"You liked him?"

"He was decent to me. He never tried to do anything, never tried to touch me or get too close. He let me decide what he was to me. Until I got arrested for breaking into a school with some…well they weren't friends."

"So you were a juvenile delinquent?"

"In every sense of the word," Emma confirms. "I don't know how but Jim managed to convince the cops not to charge me. They released me into his custody instead. When we got back to the house, I expected him to do about a thousand different things including tell me what I had to do to not go back to the kid's home. It wouldn't have been the first time."

Regina pulls back and away from the bag, surprise and repulsion tightening her muscles. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying hit the bag and let me tell my story," Emma insists. Her jaw tightens and something dark tears through her eyes for a moment.

Regina swallows hard, but does as told, smacking the bag once again with almost violent force as different possibilities of what a young Emma Swan might have gone through streak through her mind. In spite of everything that hurts within herself, she finds her heart aching at this.

"He didn't ask any of those things of me," Emma assures her. "Like I said, he was one of the decent ones. He told me that in order to stay with the family that I needed to figure out how to channel my restlessness. He said that was my biggest problem at the time; I didn't know what to do with myself. So the next morning, he took me to the gym and he showed me how to box."

"So he didn't…"

"No. Jim never laid a hand on me. One of the other kids in the house did try something, though. A few months after I started working out. And when he did, I used all the training that Jim had shown me and I broke his jaw."

"Nice job," Regina nods, her approval clear.

"At the time, I thought so, but then I panicked. I figured I'd end up in jail and well kids told stories about what happened to girls like me in there. So I ran as hard and as fast as I could. I ran and I hid and I never went back."

"Never?"

"No. That was my last foster family. Six months later, I met Neal. And well, we all know how that worked out for me."

Regina steps back and away from the bag. "I…I never…"

"Why could you?" Emma asks.

"I wanted…I wanted everyone to hurt, but I didn't want what you went through. I wanted you dead, but -"

"The day with Graham or –"

"When you were a child. If you hadn't been put in the wardrobe, I would have killed you to stop you from being able to break my curse."

"You would have killed a child?"

"I think so."

"But you don't know."

"You're kinder in your assumption of me than I deserve, Miss Swan."

"No, I just understand that thinking you might be capable of something doesn't mean that you actually are. I've seen you with children, Regina. I've seen you with Henry, and I'm sorry, but I don't believe you capable of killing a defenseless baby. Even if you already did hate me."

"I hated everything, and the things that I was willing to do in the name of that hatred are unthinkable. It's a mistake to believe that there were lines that I wouldn't have crossed back then."

"And now?"

"I know you want me to tell you that I'm better –"

"I don't," Emma assures her. "We've only been here a week, Regina; I know that nothing heals that quickly. Especially not what you've been through."

"Or you? Don't think I've forgotten that this is as much for you as it is for me."

Emma nods her head in acceptance of this. "Point is, I don't think you are who you think you are anymore. You're certainly not the woman who cast that curse and might have been capable of killing a child."

"Then who am I?" It's an honest if slightly gut-wrenching question.

"Don't know yet," Emma admits. "But I do know that you owe me a story now." She smiles when she says this, as if to try to release some of the tension that's formed between them.

Regina chuckles, but the sound is far from humorous because of the story she has to tell. "Indeed, I do. You wanted to know what my other regret is?"

"Yeah."

"Killing my father for his heart so that I could cast the curse. He was a good man."

"Was he?"

Regina blinks, clearly not having expected that question. Silly really because as she's quickly finding out, Emma's not shy about pushing into dangerous areas. "I'm not sure I understand the question."

"Yes, you do. Being a good man isn't just about not intentionally hurting someone. It's about standing up for people who can't. Did he do that?"

"The best he could."

"Really?"

"Yes," she answers, chin up in defiance and a bit of righteous anger.

"I thought we were being honest with each other."

"We are. He tried. My mother was…" She shakes her head.

"Okay, you don't want to talk about Cora, fine. What about afterwards. Mary Margaret told me he was with you during your Evil Queen days. Why didn't he ever try to talk you out of your anger? Why didn't he ever pull you back from the edge?"

"He did. I…I was resolute."

"Why didn't he try harder? That's what parents do. That's what good people do. They try and they keep trying even when it stops making sense."

Regina turns her head. Tears sparkle in her eyes, and for a moment, it looks as though she might not be able to hold them back.

"Regina," Emma says, reaching around the bag as if to touch her, but stopping just short. "If you don't want to –"

"No. We had a deal," the brunette says suddenly, sharply. "We had a…I keep my deals. I…I do." She nods her head as if to convince herself.

"Okay. Okay."

"I don't know why he didn't try harder," Regina admits. "But I do know that he loved me dearly, which so very few people in my life ever actually have. And I know that he was the one person who never actively tried to hurt me. He tried to teach me things. He taught me to ride horses and how to play chess and he taught me…he taught me how to love, and maybe I've never done it well and maybe I don't really know how, but he did try to teach me."

"But it wasn't enough."

Regina shakes her head. "Not enough to make him stand up to her. No."

A few seconds of uneasy silence pass where neither woman knows what to say next. The air around them is thick with emotion and moisture, and it all feels like too much all of the sudden. It feels like something wants to break.

Emma sighs, and the sound is loud in the garage, louder than the rain from above. "You ready to stop talking?" she asks, smiling thinly.

"I think so."

"Then give me what you got," Emma tells her. "I got the bag."

It's a bit like saying "I've got you" without saying exactly that, but Regina hears the words just the same. She nods her head in appreciation.

And then punches until she can't.

She punches until her hands ache and she knows that all there is left is pain.

That's when Emma places a hand on her forearm and steers her away from the still swaying bag. That's when Emma pushes her down onto the paint bucket that Henry had been sitting on earlier, unwraps her hands and then just holds them tightly within her own, lightly squeezing the pain away and saying nothing at all. Their eyes are locked, but there's nothing but the sound of raindrops loudly and rhythmically hitting the metal roof above them.

Finally, Regina says in a quiet voice, "The bag helps."

"I thought it would. Just remember the rules; don't hurt yourself."

"Of course." She stands up, freeing her hands and sliding them behind them her, safe in a place where Emma can't see the way they still tremble.

"You want to nightcap on the porch before bed?" Emma asks.

"Not tonight. But…I…thank you for this."

Emma nods. "Goodnight."

Regina starts to leave, and then stops, her back still to Emma. When she speaks, her voice is low and throaty, cracking just a bit on each word. "You are a good person, Emma. How that happened, I don't know and I think I hate you for being able to be something that I'm incapable of, but you are it. In spite of me, in spite of everything that this world has thrown at you, you are a good person."

And with that, she turns and leaves, shutting the door behind her.

If Emma could scream out her frustration and fear and sadness and heartbreak, she thinks that she would, but instead, she stands up, walks over to the bag and hits it as hard as she can.

And keeps hitting it until she falls against it, forehead against the leather.

She doesn't cry because she rarely cries anymore. She does, however, hold onto the bag as tightly as she can. She holds onto it until she has the strength to hold herself up again. Until she's sure she can be strong.

Until she can be the good person that she wants to be.

The good person that everyone needs her to be.

The person she still doesn't believe actually exists.

She hopes to hell that she won't let everyone down. The stakes are too high and she's not sure that she can…

She stops herself, takes a deep breath, and then steps away from the bag. She squares her knees and her shoulders and curls her hands into fists.

And then the workout really begins.

And now perhaps, so does the real work with the former Evil Queen.

**TBC...**


	10. 8

**A/N: Apologies for the long wait. I expect to be able to update much faster. This is a shorter chapter, but hopefully still satisfactory. Enjoy and thanks!**

* * *

The techno music thumps loudly in her ears. She barely hears it, just focuses her eyes on the stretch of sand above. She moves her muscles quickly, gliding along the sand. She loses herself in the motion, the exhilaration of her heart pounding and her blood pumping.

The feeling of being alive.

This is heaven, Emma thinks, the moments where she can just be in motion. The moments when nothing matters but the feeling that nothing can stop her and nothing can control her. So very much of her life has been spent in the service of others - even when she hadn't known it to be such - but this is freedom.

It's early morning and the air is crisp and clean flowing off the ocean. She breathes it in even as she surges along the sand. Sweat pours down her and glistens against her pale skin, and this, too, feels good and like it should. Since moving to Storybrooke, morning runs have become a relic of the past, something she hasn't had time for.

And that's a shame because this feels like ice cream on a hot day and cocoa on a cold one.

Who would have thought, she thinks as she approaches the beach house, that it would take an intervention to remind her of the things she needs to remember.

Like how to be free even when being the Savior.

* * *

"How was your run?" the former queen asks the moment Emma steps into the kitchen, her shirt soaked with sweat. As she asks the question, Regina's tone casual and just barely interested, she's standing over the juicer, pressing in apples and bananas. Over the last three weeks, Regina has become quite acquainted with this particular appliance, which is good for everyone, really, because yes, fruit smoothies are better than soda.

Or so Emma's been told about fifty times since the fruit drinks started getting pushed into her hand the morning after the blowup over Neal.

She'd imagined it then for something of a thank you mixed with an apology, a way for Regina to add to the household without admitting that she was doing so (because doing so would be equal to allowing for the reality that she really had needed this intervention, and she's nowhere close to ready for that kind of self-truth, Emma realizes). Now, the sheriff thinks that maybe Regina is just having fun creating new combinations.

Yesterday it'd been blueberries and pears. Strange and a bit unsettling on her stomach; Emma's quite pleased to see apples and bananas back today.

Even if apples in Regina's hands still give her pause.

"Good," Emma nods, lifting up a hand to wipe sweat away from her brow.

"Good," Regina repeats, and then returns her eyes to the machine.

"Henry not up yet?"

"Not yet. I thought maybe he could sleep in this morning," Regina responds, frowning for a moment as she glances around the counter. Her eyes settle on an orange there. She reaches for it and turns it over in her hand.

"You're about to get creative aren't you?" Emma queries as she settles herself onto one of the stools in front of the counter. She tries to blow a strand of wet hair away from her eyes, and when it predictably refuses to budge, she roughly uses her palm to shove it back and away.

Regina's eyebrow lifts. "You think oranges are creative?"

"I think oranges are only the start of things. Where are the pears?"

A dramatic roll of the eyes greets her, and Emma thinks for a moment that Regina has been spending way too much time around her, because while amusing, the expression is definitely beneath a woman of her breeding.

"Drink your juice, dear," Regina answers finally as she extends a glass full of thick pinkish liquid to her.

"Yes, my Queen," Emma mocks lightly as she takes the glass.

Regina for her part, though, just lets the mockery roll over her like a light breeze. "I see you're finally learning," she comments dryly. "About damned time, Miss Swan; I was beginning to think you couldn't be trained."

Emma snorts in response. She tips the glass back and takes a sip. "Good."

"You expected poison?"

"I expected pears."

"You really need to get over the pears."

"And the blueberries," Emma reminds her, grimacing slightly.

Quite in spite of herself, Regina chuckles. "Yes. Those, too."

They share a moment – something close to comfortable and easy – and then Emma stands up and steps around the counter, coming to stand next to her. "You want to get out of my way so that I can get started on breakfast?"

"Saying 'please' is usually the polite way to ask someone to move aside."

"Fine; please, get out of my way."

"Better," Regina says softly, nodding her head almost graciously as she steps away from Emma. Taking a glass of the pinkish liquid with her, she heads towards the Living Room. Emma watches her go, her expression altering into one of concern and confusion. Ever since the night with the heavy bag, Regina has been calmer and quieter. Almost easy going.

It's been more than a little bit surreal.

Because even though a bag can be therapeutic as hell – and even though Regina has taken to working out with it almost every evening, like a ritual – Emma knows for a fact – and from experience – that absolutely no one heals from just a few sharply delivered hits. Especially not a former Evil Queen.

Which means this is all a show.

Or something else completely.

At first, she'd thought Regina's new almost mature attitude was a complete game – a way to stop conversation and try to convince the sheriff that the problem had been solved and they could all just go home.

But then, to her surprise, Regina had never once mentioned going home. Instead, she'd settled into an almost calm routine. Effortless and easy.

Like she hadn't been planning to murder someone just days earlier.

As the days have passed, Emma's noticed a few things.

First, Regina is almost absurdly domestic – especially for someone who had once had hundreds of servants waiting on her. She's like someone in one of those "looking for love" ads (minus the homicidal tendencies and violent temper, of course). She cooks, cleans and even makes damned good lemonade if the weather manages to warm up from frigidly cold to somewhat cool. And her chocolate chip cookies are worth killing for. She even does all of this while listening to jazz piped through the house thanks to incredibly powerful speakers that have been wired through every room.

Second, while Regina is willing to humor conversation about little things, she changes the subject anytime anything deep or serious comes up. Their porch talks have continued, but they've become even more mundane in their content. There's no talk of Snow at all these days. The most interesting thing that Emma has gleaned from Regina over the last three weeks is that the former mayor has a strange affinity for Andrew Lloyd Webber. One which she's oddly – almost endearingly – embarrassed by because rock operas are apparently below a woman of her station. Emma had simply filed this away with the rest of the little random details she's learned.

The third thing Emma's noticed, however, is what tells her that this whole "doing so much better" thing is utter bullshit. Every night for the last three weeks, the blonde sheriff been woken up by the sound of soft cries echoing through the house. They're muffled and broken, and at first she'd thought that maybe a wounded animal had gotten itself trapped in the house, but a slow unsure walk down the hallway had brought her to Regina's door.

And the understanding that the former queen suffers from nightmares.

Ones that plague her almost every night.

So far, she hasn't said a word about them. Not to Regina, at least. She'd asked Henry if he'd heard anything, and gotten a shake of the head.

Apparently, the kid sleeps like a rock. She'd assumed that he'd been faking this during the weeks and months he'd been sharing a room with her at the loft, but it turns out that when he drops off, he really does do so hard.

Lucky bastard, she thinks as she gazes across the room at Regina.

"Miss Swan?"

"Hm?"

"You're staring, dear; is there a problem?" Regina queries. She's seated herself on the couch, legs folded beneath her. She has a hardback book in her hands. The way she holds it is delicate and careful, and she's going out of her way to ensure that she doesn't break the spine – almost like doing so is something that's been ground into her. That it's just after nine in the morning seems unimportant to the former queen. This is her new routine and part of that means reading something until breakfast is ready.

"Am I actually allowed to answer that?"

Regina closes the book and looks up. "I'm not sure I understand."

"Really? Because for the last three weeks, you've been avoiding everything that's wrong," Emma pushes. There's a part of her that feels a bit bad about this; after all, they have been getting along and Regina has been calmed and less filled with omnipresent rage. It seems wrong to try to poke the bear just to get a reaction even if she knows the bears' calm has been a lie.

"I've answered every question that you've asked," Regina counters as she reaches for her glass and lightly sips at the smoothie. It occurs to Emma that the former queen is drinking it like she would champagne and the sheriff almost laughs at the absurdity of this.

Almost.

Stay focused, she tells herself. And for once, she actually does.

"Usually by changing the subject," Emma notes as she pulls out a carton of eggs and starts cracking the shells.

"Ah. So my therapy is only therapy if we discuss the things you want to?"

"Well, no, but it's hardly therapy if we're spending thirty minutes drinking wine and staring at the water all while talking about Henry's fort."

"Henry's fort is coming along quite well," Regina nods, and there it is again. Yes, the little wood fort, which had miraculously survived the massive storm, is actually starting to resemble something more than a stack of wet lumber, but these days, it mostly serves as a way for Regina to find a safe topic.

Because it's Henry and the one thing that they continue to absolutely agree upon is the need to ensure that he's safe and happy.

"We're not here to build a fort, Regina," Emma reminds her as she tosses the eggs onto the pan. She's going with scrambled with cheese this morning. Sometimes the classics are the most obvious option.

Just like sometimes direct confrontation and calling bullshit is the only way to deal with Regina when she's trying to hide behind her walls.

"No, we're here to try to keep me from murdering your mother. Congratulations, Sheriff; your mother is in no immediate danger from me."

Emma rolls her eyes.

"Mature," Regina states, eyebrow up.

"Yeah, well, you did it just a few minutes ago."

"You probably said something idiotic, in which case it was justified."

"Of course it was," Emma sighs. "Look, Regina, we're not just here for my mother. We've been over this a hundred times and you know what, you know it. You know exactly why we're here. And why we're staying here until you deal with the things you need to deal with."

"Such as?"

"Your mother."

"Yes, well, there's not a whole hell of a lot to deal with there, Miss Swan; my mother is dead. She died by my hand thanks to your mother."

"She was a horrible human being," Emma shoots back. The words are callous and truthful and she immediately gets the response she was looking for because Regina full on flinches in her seat, her head just about snapping back on her neck in protest of what Emma has just said.

"Watch yourself," she growls.

"Or what? You'll fireball me? You can't," Emma reminds her.

"No, I can't," the former queen agrees. "But it would be unwise to underestimate me simply because I don't have magic at my disposal."

"You're absolutely right; it would be. Good thing, then, that I don't. And I'm not trying to hurt you. I swear to you, I'm not. After everything we've been through over the last month, I'd hope you'd believe that. Or at least try to."

Her blue-green eyes are so sincere, so wide and honest. So fucking Emma.

Regina sighs, visibly deflating. "I don't want to talk about this," she says simply, her eyes closing as if to suggest that she's trying to blink back tears.

"Okay," Emma replies with a nod. "But we need to. And I'm willing to wait until you're ready because…because I know you need to be, but Regina, you'll never be ready if you refuse to allow yourself to feel anything but anger at my mother and grief for yours. It's more complicated than that."

"I know," Regina agrees. She opens her eyes and looks up at Emma, and sure enough, the blonde sees the wetness of unshed tears there. "But I can't…not yet. Maybe not…not yet." She swallows, then does it again.

"Then can we talk about the nightmares you have every night?"

The flinch she gets from Regina at this is almost more dramatic than the one she'd received from calling Cora a horrible person. Regina's eyes widen comically and for a moment, she looks truly and horribly stricken.

"Nightmares?" she asks, a tremor to her voice.

"Every night," Emma confirms with a bit of a frown.

"No," Regina says. "I don't."

"You do. Do you not…do you not realize it?"

"I don't recall most of my dreams," Regina says softly and though Emma tries to ping for a lie, she can't quite detect one. Which is strange because she'd figured that the queen must have woken up with a scream on her lips almost every night, but perhaps she doesn't.

Perhaps she's just lived with these horrible dreams.

Like unwanted trophies from a life better left forgotten.

"All right," Emma tells her. "Then we'll find something else. But I've taken two things off the table already. If I agree not to bring them up again until you're ready, do you promise to at least consider my next topic?"

"I'll consider it," Regina agrees, sounding terribly weary.

"Good enough. Want bacon this morning?"

"You know I don't."

"He won't starve if he only gets his portion."

Regina smiles at her softly, and then picks up her book and opens it up again. "Maybe not," she says, eyes on the page once more. "But he'd miss it, and I think he's missed more than enough because of me."

* * *

They're side by side doing the dishes about an hour later when Emma says almost casually, "I need to call David."

And then she takes a deep breath and waits. She's suddenly quite glad that Henry's in the bathroom getting ready for a day at the beach because this conversation with Regina really could go upside down in a hurry.

But it doesn't. Instead, quietly Regina asks, "Are you going to give me the next plate or just stand there looking frightened?"

"What?"

"You're acting like I'm about to grab the knife and stab you for wanting to call your insipid father presumably to check on your even more insipid mother," Regina notes as she reaches across Emma and picks up a plate.

"Well, you did kind of flip out when I called Archie. And Neal. Remember? The tantrum with your clothes and then another one out in the rain."

"Yes," Regina responds coolly, "Thank you for the reminder."

Emma smirks, and reaches for the dishrag. "Hey, I'm just trying the whole honesty thing. I know they're not your favorite people, but I need to –"

"Check in, yes; I'm certain that they're concerned about you. They probably think I've murdered you and well, I am a witch, dear."

"I have no idea what you're suggesting, and I don't think I want to know."

"Probably not," Regina agrees. "I am surprised, though, that they haven't been calling you around the clock. Surely your mother is over what she did by now; your father has had plenty of time to convince her of how –"

"Stop," Emma says, her voice soft. "Please."

"Because it upsets you?"

"Because it upsets you."

Regina tilts her head, suspicion gleaming in her eyes. "Explain."

"Ask nicely."

"No. Explain."

"You know I'm not one of your subjects."

"No, you're not," Regina agrees with a sharp nod of her head. "If you were, I'd have you tied you half naked to a wall by your wrists and –"

"Kinky," Emma interrupts, picking up the last of the plates and placing it into the dishwasher. She snaps it shut, and then grins up at Regina. The look is so maddeningly endearing that it's almost instantly disarming as well.

The former queen huffs, and waves her hand. "Anyway. Explain yourself."

"You have some things that you're not yet ready to talk about and I respect that you need the time. Mary Margaret – Snow – is a different matter completely. You'll talk about her if I press you to, but whenever you do, you get so angry and I can see everything inside of you. I can see the person that would have ripped her heart out in your eyes."

"She's not a very nice person is she?" Regina says, her dark eyes suddenly seeming quite dull. These are the moments that confuse Emma, and frighten her just a little bit. She's learned how to deal with angry Regina, figured out how to handle the quiet Regina, but she has no clue what to do with the one who is clearly full of self-loathing and disgust with herself.

This one feels honest, and it scares the hell out of Emma.

"No," Emma admits. "But you don't have to be her."

"We both know that's a lie, Sheriff; you are who you are no matter how far you run from yourself. I can become the quiet and docile woman that you want me to be –" She holds up a hand to stop Emma from interrupting. " – And I can become harmless and humble, but it won't change who I actually am inside. Those things will never alter the things I've done and what I am."

"No," Emma nods. "They won't, but that's no reason to just give up."

"Who said anything about giving up? I never give up, Miss Swan," Regina tells her with a sharp humorless laugh. "Some might see that as a positive trait. Persistence in my goals no matter the obstacle, but we both know the truth about that, too, don't we? My persistence is nothing more than my pride and it has led me to this place. To a place where my own child needs to run an intervention on me." She shakes her head in disgust.

Emma shrugs her shoulders. "When you care about someone, you do what you have to do to help them through the hard times. You might be upset that Henry is doing this, but he's not; he wants to be here with you. He wants to be here _for_ you, Regina; that's what family does."

"And you? We're not family, and I've still never completely understood why you went along with this. We both agree that it has at least a little to do with your mother, but there is more isn't there?"

"Maybe I needed a time out, too," Emma admits, and then offers a small sad smile. "Your world…well for a place that's supposed to be about happy endings and true love, it's pretty incredible just how fucked up it is."

Regina chuckles, "Yes, well that's true."

"Sometimes I miss the old me."

"Would the old you have kidnapped someone to prevent them from murdering someone else?" Regina asks. "Or would she have washed her hands of it?" Her head is tilted, and though Emma searches for it, she finds no malicious intent in the former queen's dark eyes.

"Well, if it was my job, I would have hunted that person down and turned them in, but if it wasn't, you're right; I'd have walked away."

"Sometimes you can't go back," Regina tells her.

"Are we talking about you or me?"

"Why did you become a bounty hunter?"

Seeming both surprised and oddly discomforted by the unexpected question, Emma shrugs her shoulders. "I sort of fell into it."

"That's it?"

"Yeah."

"Mm. I may not have your notorious superpower –"

"Infamous, not notorious."

"Notorious, dear," Regina chuckles. "For failing."

"Right. You were saying?"

"But even I know when someone is lying and you, my dear, are absolutely lying about simply falling into the job."

"It's a long story."

"And yet you want me to tell you mine."

"Yeah, well I have my off limits ones, too."

"Fair enough," Regina answers with a nod, stepping away from the sink. "Call your parents, Miss Swan; assure them that I haven't murdered you yet. I'm sure they'll be quite relieved." And with that, she turns and exits the room. Absent her heels, her steps are soft, but her stride remains dominant and regal. She's still every bit the Queen.

Just some days maybe not as evil anymore.

* * *

"Hey," Emma says softly, cradling her cell against her ear. She's standing on the back deck, looking out at the ocean. It's a beautiful day, and she's considering perhaps taking a swim after she finishes this call.

Or maybe she'll wander down to watch Henry and Regina work on the fort.

Maybe.

She's been hesitant to do so simply because that's their time together, and she doesn't want to interrupt it, but she has to admit that she's curious to see how the rebuilding of the fort has been going.

First this, though.

"Emma," David breathes, and she almost laughs because he sounds so damned relieved, and maybe just a little bit surprised.

"I'm fine," she tells him before he can even ask.

"You are? No, of course you are; you're my daughter."

She smiles thinly at this, biting back on the urge to remind him that she's more than that. His words come from a good place, and he means no harm by them so she lets it go. "How's Mary Margaret doing?"

"Better. She still has her moments, but she's better. She misses you. We miss you. You and Henry. When are you coming home?"

"Not for a while yet," Emma tells him.

"Not making progress?"

"We are," Emma says, and then offers nothing further.

After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, he says quietly, "Emma…"

"We're staying," she interrupts. "Until she's ready to go home."

"Her or you?" he asks.

"Maybe all of us."

"We never asked you, did we?"

"What do you mean?"

"We never slowed down long enough to ask how you were handling everything," David elaborates. "You seemed okay with everything, but –"

"I'm doing okay," she assures him. Then, with a shrug of her shoulders that she knows he can't see, "And if I'm not, I will be by the time I come home."

"And when will that be?"

"When the war is over."

"The war? Between Regina and Snow? Emma –"

"Trust me," she pleads.

"I do, but this war has been going on for a very long time. Do you really think a few weeks at the beach can fix everything?"

"Of course not," the sheriff responds. "They're eventually going to have to deal with each other, but maybe between you and I, we can make sure that when that time comes –"

"Maybe they don't come to blows," David finishes.

"Or try to rip out each others' heart," Emma chuckles.

It's a lame joke, but David laughs anyway because really, what else can you do in a situation like this one?

"I hope to see you soon," he says after a few more moments of silence.

"Me, too. Take care of her."

"I will. And you take care of them."

"Regina, too?" Emma asks, eyebrow up.

He laughs again, the sound humorless. "Her especially. I'm not sure I understand their relationship; I'm not sure I ever will, but I know Snow wants Regina to be…well, she doesn't want this."

"Then we do what we do," Emma tells him, thinking that if he were in front of her, she just might reach out to touch him because he sounds as lost and shaken as she feels. "I'll talk to you in a couple weeks, okay?"

"Will it really be that long?"

"Probably. Bye."

"Bye."

* * *

She watches them for almost an hour. She's seated on her butt in a patch of sand high up the beach. She imagines that if Regina were to turn around and look, she'd be able to spot the sheriff easily, and that'd be fine because Emma's not really trying to hide from them; she's simply watching.

She watches as mother and son stack pieces of wood atop each other, using wet sand to keep them stuck together. It's a fix that wouldn't withstand an actual storm, but Emma's starting to wonder if the whole point of this exercise isn't about creating something, but repairing it.

Making it stronger with each rebuild.

She's smiling to herself as she thinks this, and of course, that's when Regina turns around and sees her. Their eyes connect – brown on green – and for a long moment (long enough for Henry to notice) they just stare at each other, as if they're sizing each other up.

And maybe they are, but Emma thinks that this is more about Regina making a choice, trying to decide how she'll react to the intrusion instead of just reacting on impulse. And that's progress.

Which just make Emma smile all the wider.

"Wipe that obnoxious smile off your face, Miss Swan," Regina finally snaps.

"Sorry," Emma offers as she stands up and brushes sand off of her legs. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"And yet you have so you might as well come down and join us."

She actually considers it for a moment, turns it over in her mind and tries to figure out why it would be such a bad thing to allow for this bit of family bonding between Henry and his two mothers.

What stops her, what makes her give this up, though, is the way Regina is touching Henry's back. It's vaguely possessive, and even though the former mayor is inviting her in, Emma knows that it's for Henry and not because she actually wants the sheriff to be part of this.

"No," she says. "Thanks. I'm gonna go for a swim and maybe lay out."

"Work on your tan, Sheriff?" Regina asks, a slight teasing lilt to her voice.

"I do hate lines," Emma drawls. She smiles a bit when she sees Henry's confused expression. She reminds herself that he's probably never seen a woman in a bikini even though his house had been less than a mile from the beach. Regina had been nothing if not protective.

"Well, then," Regina nods. "Enjoy yourself. We'll be up for lunch shortly."

"Sure. And…thanks for the invite."

They look at each other again, perhaps both of them remembering another invite and how badly the aftermath of that had been.

"Of course," Regina says softly.

"Have fun, kid," Emma says, then waves her hand. A wink and she's trotting away leaving Henry and Regina to their fort.

For now.

Next time – assuming there is one - she thinks she might accept the invite.

Next time.

* * *

"Why is that here?" Regina demands as she steps out onto the deck. She's holding two (real) glasses of red wine in her hands, but her eyes are on the massive storybook – Henry's book - that it settled in Emma's lap.

"Been doing some reading," the sheriff replies with a shrug.

"On your parents?"

"On you."

"Ah. Yes, well, I am well represented within those pages," Regina replies, her tone cool. She hands Emma one of the glasses and then settles into the chair next to her and brings the stein to her lips. She nods as the flavor – still beneath her, but better than the early bottles – flows over her tongue.

"Not in a very kind light," Emma notes.

"Is there a kind light to represent me in? I'm the Evil Queen."

"That's kind of my point. You'd think a book built on stories would bother to include some about what you were doing when you weren't destroying lives and cursing people to little fishing towns in Maine."

Regina shrugs her shoulders, "I'm afraid none of that is very interesting."

"Tell me anyway. What did you do to release steam?"

"I rode horses."

Emma's eyebrow lifts. "No one has ever seen you by the stables."

Regina chuckles at this. "I always knew that you kept an eye on me as much as I kept one on you."

"Yeah, well, I was always trying to figure out your angle."

"Mm. Well, in answer to your question, the reason you've never seen me there is because I haven't touched a horse since I came to this world."

"But it helped you there so why not here?"

"I wanted to leave all of that behind."

"Even the things that made you feel good?"

"Especially the things that made me feel good."

"Magic?"

Regina nods and takes another sip. "Magic made me powerful. Entire kingdoms feared me. Even Rumple if he could ever be honest with himself would admit that I was…strong. And yes, it made me feel good."

"But?"

"The things that make you feel good tend to make you feel empty."

"Yeah," Emma nods.

"Then you know."

"I do." She points down to a page showing the Evil Queen. "Tell me about saving my mother."

"Why?"

"Because that's when everything changed for you, right?"

"Everything changed," Regina admits. She sighs then, and slowly, in a tone so even and controlled as to almost sound unaffected, she recounts the by the beats story of how she'd saved Snow from the runaway horse. She even tosses in the recently discovered details involving her mothers' manipulations (though Emma notes that Regina's voice dulls even further as she speaks of Cora). When she's done, she finishes the glass of wine and stands up. "I think we're done for tonight," she says.

"Okay," Emma nods. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," the former queen replies, her voice so very soft. She enters the house, shutting the door softly behind her.

Emma watches, knowing that they're far from done talking about these things.

Any of these things.

* * *

It's two in the morning when Emma hears the soft sound of anguished cries echoing through the house. She listens for a few minutes, and then turns over in her bed and tries to force her face into her pillow.

"Stop," she hears, and it's too much. It's too much.

Finally, she stands up and shuffles down the hall. She even gets to the door and places her hand against it like she's about to open it. She thinks maybe she'll shake the former queen awake, pull her out of her nightmare.

But she doesn't because what would she say then?

How would she explain her presence?

Would Regina accept the comfort, accept the compassion?

Probably not.

She closes her eyes tightly for a moment, brings herself back under control and then returns to her bedroom. She pulls the blankets over her, and then her pillow, finally managing to muffle out the cries.

And finally, she sleeps. Restlessly, fitfully, but all the same.

Until she's woken up by the sound of something quite solid getting hit with an almost violent amount of fury and force.

Until she hears the sound of someone screaming.

Someone that sounds a whole lot like Regina.

**TBC...**


	11. Interlude II

**A/N: Thank you for all of the kind words. This is an intense chapter, and I hope it lives up to the drama and expectations of the previous one.**

**For those curious, the interludes are every bit a part of the overall story. I'm using them to house the nightmares that the characters have, and as you will see from this chapter, the interludes act as bridges between events within the waking world. **

**Warnings for violence and general Rumple bastardlyness.**

**Appreciation to my bouncing boards on this.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

She steps out of the shower, her slightly longer than normal dark hair slicked back against her scalp. She's dressed in gray and blue flannel pants and a simple white shirt that stretches tightly across her chest. After a month of wearing these clothes, she's gotten used to them, but she still can't stop the slight sneer of disgust from curling her lip upwards when she sees her reflection in the mirror.

The woman there doesn't look like a Queen; she looks ordinary and unimportant, like someone who could easily be forgotten.

Perhaps like someone who should be forgotten, she muses.

Regina reaches and touches her reflection, trailing a too long fingernail across the lines she sees around her eyes. She looks tired and sad.

Broken.

This is who she is now, the former queen thinks to herself. Little more than a powerless angry woman, who now finds herself playing house with the biological mother of the beloved child who'd helped to bring about her downfall. It's all quite absurd and preposterous.

And the worst part is that she no longer finds herself struggling against it.

She's resigned to this, she realizes. Resigned to the reality that Emma Swan will take her apart piece by piece, dismantling each of her walls until she has no defenses left in place. Slowly, bit-by-bit, the Savior will break her down until defeat will become inevitable, perhaps even wished for.

And all of this will happen over red wine and pleasant conversation.

She grunts in disgust, and then turns away from the mirror. She makes her way over to the bed, and slides beneath pale blue cotton sheets. She's still not quite used to the feel of this fabric against her skin, far preferring the unforgiving but comforting silk that she'd spent decades sleeping upon.

After settling her head against the oversized pillow, Regina allows her weary eyes to glance upwards towards the bedframe. The bent metal uncomfortably reminds her of her first night spent in this room, handcuffed and furiously struggling. Her wrist is almost completely healed now, only a reddish discoloration providing evidence of her captivity and failed escape attempts.

She licks her too dry lips, and swallows roughly, fighting back against the unpleasant memories of being restrained.

She closes her eyes and orders herself to sleep. Tells herself not to dream. Just sleep, she thinks.

No dreams.

She tells herself this every night, and every morning, she comes to in the middle of messy sheets that tell a tale of unsettled sleep.

But she never remembers the nightmares, and perhaps that's enough.

At least it used to be.

Until tonight.

* * *

_He's waiting for her when she arrives. She dismounts gracefully from her horse, her heavy boots hitting the ground with a wet thud. She scowls slightly at him, "Why here?" she asks, her dark eyes flittering across the open area that surrounds them. Typically, their dark magic lessons are done in secluded locations, far away from curious eyes; ones that could potentially report her quite illegal activities back to her husband._

_The King._

_A King who would likely see her executed if he knew exactly what it was that she was doing during her many times away from the castle._

_This risk has been apparent since day one of her training, and her teacher has always been aware and respectful of such; he's always met with her in the middle of the dark woods or within his own castle, but never here._

_Never on the edge of a cliff overlooking her kingdom._

_It is quite lovely here, she must admit: the view from this treacherous height breathtakingly beautiful. She sees everything that falls within Leopold's reign beneath her feet. The land stretches in front of her – towns and valleys and roads. And she can see the people moving around like ants, each of them little more than a toy soldier to be owned and controlled._

_And up here, watching them, she feels like she's the one with the power. It's a lie, of course, but that doesn't stop the feeling from coursing through her veins; it doesn't stop her heart from pounding as it occurs to her that she is the Queen of this land, and everyone on the ground is not only literally beneath her, but also figuratively._

_At least in theory._

_In reality, she's simply the King's wife and the stepmother to his child; a woman expected to perform care-taking, sexual and occasionally ceremonial duties and little more._

_And up here, up here on this high cliff overlooking the kingdom, she's exposed. Should someone on the ground happen to glance upwards, perhaps they'd see their Queen standing above them with a man of ill repute, and should they decide to relay this information back to Leopold, she could find herself being questioned about her activities. And should the King decide to believe such rumors after the frantic protests and lies of his wife, well it could cost her._

_Would cost her._

_Everything. Including her life._

_Rumplestiltskin laughs in response to her question, his hand coming up into the air long enough to whirl around. "I like the scenery," he says. "And it smells so…fresh here." He inhales dramatically. "Wouldn't you agree?"_

"_Is this a test?" she demands, and she's certain before he even replies that she knows the answer to the question; everything is a test for him. A chance to push her to the edge and see how far she's willing to go._

_How far she's willing to fall._

_He knows this even if she doesn't._

"_I just like the scenery," he repeats, his tone entirely too airy to be honest. _

"_Of course," she says, shifting so that she's leaning away from him, her hands rested upon her hips. "And what is our lesson today?" Her eyes glint and there's an edge of obstinacy he sees there; a kind of rebellion. _

"_Today, the lesson is all about the frailty of the human heart," he says with a tilt of his head. He steps – well, more hops - closer to her, enough so that she can see the glitter of his skin. The sun shines off him obscenely, giving him a strange greenish tint that causes her stomach to curdle. Still, she holds her ground because while she's still very young in magic, she's not quite the girl he'd first talked into pushing her mother through a mirror._

_She's got blood on her hands now, and hatred eating away at her heart._

_His grin widens as he takes in the frown that crosses her beautiful features. "I thought we already learned that lesson," she insists. "I know how to take a heart. I know how to crush one." Her shoulders tighten and it's like she's trying to convince herself that these words mean nothing to her._

"_Oh, yes," he confirms. "We've learned that lesson, and you proved quite adept at taking hearts and destroying them. Yes, you did, indeed." _

"_Then?"_

_He leans in towards her once more and lowers his voice down to almost a malicious hiss, "But what you don't yet know how to do is control them."_

_She swallows hard. "Control them?"_

"_As I told you before, dearie, once you take a heart, you own the body you take it from. You can kill the pitiful creature if you so will it or you can make them do, well…anything." He twitches his hand in the air and giggles. _

"_Anything?" she repeats._

"_Anything." He steps away from her and looks down at the kingdom below them, his eyes focusing on the people moving down below._

"_Show me," she says, almost greedily, approaching him from the side. She's afraid as well, but that hunger for power and control that has been growing within her starts to bark. She thinks of the husband who had come to her bed on the previous evening, his hands rough and demanding against her unwilling skin. She wonders what it would be like to control him, to demand submission of him. She wonders what it would be like to order him to bring a knife to his throat and –_

_She shudders and pulls away from the thoughts._

_Such delusions and daydreams are exciting and terrifying and she finds herself spinning towards them even as the part of her that still sees Daniel so very clearly screams against her continuous downwards spiral._

"_Oh, I will," he assures her. "Are you ready?"_

"_I am." She looks around, then, as if searching for another person or perhaps another animal. "What will you teach me on?"_

_He grins again. "On you."_

"_What? No…"_

_He steps towards her again, and this time she can feel his hot breath against her cheek. "Power is seduction, my Queen. If you are to control, you must know what it feels like, you must understand the touch of it."_

"_I know what it's like to be controlled," she snaps back, indignant and furious. She can all too well recall the touch of her mothers' magic, and she has quickly learned the restraint of the label of the King's wife, too._

"_Not like this."_

"_I don't want –"_

_He shrugs his shoulders. "Then the lesson is over. A shame really because once you've learned how to control a heart, there's nothing you can't do."_

_She looks up at him, her eyes locking with his. It's a battle of wills, and one that she knows that she will eventually back down from. He knows it, too. _

"_Fine," she says. "Do what you must, but show me. Everything."_

"_You're sure? If you're not, we don't have to do this. We can learn about how to gather…leaves for a fortune spell, perhaps."_

_He's playing with her now and they both know it. This is all about forcing her to be the one to ask for it, making her have to own what he's doing to her, what he's turning her into. And it's working because she nods._

"_I am. Do it."_

"_As you wish, Your Majesty."_

_His hand jerks forward blindingly fast and a moment later, he's holding her heart in his palm. It's bright red still, but there are dots of black around the edges of it, signs of what she's been doing to herself, what's she becoming._

"_Beautiful," he says, almost in awe._

"_That's mine," she gasps, and though it seems a silly question, he allows for it because the surprise in her eyes is not unexpected; it's not every day that you see your own heart existing freeform outside of your chest._

_And realize that even as it is, you're still standing and breathing._

_And living._

_Or so you think._

"_It is," he nods, glancing down at the heart, which is beating fiercely, frantically, pulsing a bright glowing red. "You're scared."_

_She looks up at him as if she's about to argue, but then nods her head slowly because yes, she is scared. And excited, but so very scared._

"_Good," he says. "Remember the feeling, because it's what your victims' will feel when you rip their hearts from their chest. Fear. Of you. And what you're about to do to them. And what you can make them do."_

_She lets out an involuntary gasp and then steps away from him. "I don't want that," she stammers. "I don't want…this isn't what…"_

"_Isn't it?" he presses, his palm still open around her heart. He's exerting little to no pressure on it, simply allowing it to exist within his hand._

"_No. I told you; I don't want to hurt anyone."_

"_Really? But…but I don't understand. You killed my other apprentice in order to secure your position. I think, your Majesty, that we've well crossed the line of no return in the regard of not wanting to hurt anyone."_

_She closes her eyes and allows his words to wash over her. He's right, of course; she had murdered that girl in a fit of anger, jealousy, depression, and so very many other ugly emotions. She'd wanted to hurt someone desperately in those moments, wanted someone else to feel as she did._

_As if that could ever really be possible._

_Either way, that girl had paid the price so that Regina could be the one to learn these terrible lessons. And learn them, she intends to._

_Better than anyone else ever has._

"_I just want," she whispers, "To be in control. I don't want him to own me."_

"_The King?"_

_She nods her head, biting her lip as she again thinks of him touching her, as she remembers him whispering into her ear, telling her of his ownership._

_Calling her his._

"_One day, he won't," Rumple assures her, almost gently. _

"_And this will help me?"_

"_It will," he tells her with a malicious grin. But then, as if realizing, he sobers up and adds, "Though not with taking his heart. No matter how angry you get, you must understand that it would be far too risky to take the King's heart and try to control him in that manner."_

_Her head snaps backwards on her neck, surprise and disappointment registering in her eyes. "That what good is this? What will this teach me?"_

"_How to control others around him," Rumple soothes. "How to keep him from seeing what you're doing by owning the people closest to him." He reaches out and very lightly touches her cheek, his fingers dancing for just a moment over her skin. He inhales sharply as he does so – like he always does – as if overwhelmed by the power he feels flowing off of her in waves. "You have much to learn," he continues. "Ensuring that the King isn't aware of what you are doing is more important that controlling him."_

"_Easy for you to say," Regina retorts, pulling her arms around her chest as if to protect herself from a man who isn't even up here with them._

"_Not enjoying private time with your husband are you?" Rumple goads. _

_She moves away from him. "If you have a lesson to teach me, do it."_

"_Impatient as always, I see," he nods, adding a slightly giggle. "But, of course. There are three basic things that you need to understand about controlling a human heart. The first is what you can do with it." He lifts her heart up, gives it the very lightest of squeezes (which causes a tightening within her own chest, but little more) and says, "Walk to your horse."_

_To her horror, she does exactly as he tells her to, her legs moving almost independently of the rest of her body. Without active permission from her brain, she finds herself walking back over to where her stead is grazing._

"_Excellent," Rumple laughs. "That, dearie, is control."_

"_You can make me walk like I'm a puppet on a string?"_

"_Oh, Your Majesty, I can make you do so much more than that."_

"_Like what?"_

_The most horrible smile spreads across his lips and then dances upwards to meet his eyes. "I can make you drop down to your knees in front of me."_

_Her eyes snap up to him. "Don't."_

_And that's a challenge she never should have made. _

_He squeezes her heart again. "Kneel before me."_

"_No," she growls, fighting like hell to resist the pull of her body. Tears spring into her eyes, and it's taking everything she has to battle his control over her. She shakes her head, her hands curling into tight fists._

"_Kneel," he says again, so very calmly, and squeezes harder. The tightness in her chest intensifies, becoming uncomfortable, and then painful. _

"_No," she says once more, but even as she does, she feels her body sagging forward and dropping, her leather-clad knees slamming against the hard earth with an uncomfortable thumping noise._

_And then there she is, on her knees in front of her Rumple. Humiliated and furious, but unable to resist. This realization fills her with rage._

_And desire._

_The desire to be the one in his position._

_He tilts his head at her. "See? Control. Even over a Queen."_

"_You bastard," she growls._

"_Not very ladylike," he giggles. "Now, for part two of the lesson. You understand control." He gestures towards her. "Now comes power."_

_And then without another moment of hesitation, he squeezes her heart, his fingers digging into the fragile organ with frightening intensity and force._

_She screams as shockwaves of pain tear through her. Her hands rush towards her chest, and her fingers frantically and instinctively scrabble at her clothing, as if trying to rip the leather vest that she's wearing away so that she can get to the area where her heart should be housed._

"_Uh uh," he scolds. "Not too loud or someone will hear and come running. What will you tell them? That you were learning how to control hearts? I don't really imagine that that would go over well with the King, no?"_

_She looks up at him with hot tears streaming down her cheeks. When he squeezes again, she opens her mouth but this time screams silently, her teeth digging into her lips, the coppery taste of blood filling her mouth._

_He nods in approval. "Better. Now, beg me to stop."_

_He's holding the heart away from him when he says this, making it clear that this order isn't one that's being forced upon her, but one that is being demanded – one that is about willing submission and obedience._

_She shakes her head in the negative, gritting her teeth against the pain._

"_Your pride will be your downfall," he sighs dramatically, acting as though he's dismayed by her decision. She knows otherwise, though; the bastard relishes this. He's perhaps even getting off on breaking her in this way._

"_I won't beg," she growls out._

"_Then perhaps we should move onto part three of the lesson," he says. "Ah, but you know this one already, don't you? This is the end of things. When control and power are no longer needed and it's just about…death."_

_His eyes harden into dark malicious coals. As he gazes down at her, he squeezes her heart hard, using just about enough force to cause it to explode within his hand. He's too practiced to destroy it so easily, but as she collapses to the ground, she pays this crucial reality little mind._

_Instead, tears coming fast and furious now, she lies writhing on the ground; her eyes rolled backwards, her teeth grit tight as another scream catches in her throat. She feels as though she's experiencing a heart attack._

_And perhaps, she is._

"_Beg me to stop," he says softly, kneeling down to touch her. "And I will."_

_Her pride forces one last stand. She shakes her head, the motion small._

_He grins again, as impressed as he is frustrated by his protégé. His hold tightens just a bit more, bringing them both to the brink of madness. He can feel the organ breaking apart, starting to tear and even the slightest bit of pressure will likely reduce it to dust. "Beg me to stop," he repeats._

"_Please," she finally whispers. "Please stop."_

"_Call me Master," he says. "Say 'please stop, Master'." _

_She looks up at him with realization of exactly what he is to her clear on her face. Her eyes close, and she softly repeats his words. It'll be the only time that she will ever call him this, but neither of them will ever forget it. _

"_Of course," he states once she's finished speaking. He stands up and releases his hold on her heart. Almost immediately, the pain relents and she can breathe again. "See now," he taunts. "Wasn't that easy?"_

_She just glares up at him._

"_Rise," he sighs after a moment. "And brush yourself off. If you return to your castle like that, they'll wonder who you've been rolling around with." He gestures towards the dirt that now covers her clothing._

"_You could have killed me," she says, anger sparking in her dark eyes._

"_I could have," he agrees. "And that's the lesson. Owning a heart gives you three options. One of those options is not love so get that out of your mind now. But you can control them, have power over them and kill them, and my dear Queen, I dare say all of those things are better than love anyway."_

"_What do you know of love?" Regina snaps back._

"_Enough to know that it has never done you any favors and that's why you're here with me today," the imp replies. "With your heart in my hand."_

"_Return it," she demands._

_He squeezes her heart and she gasps as pain tears through her chest._

"_Ask please," he says, his tone perfectly pleasant. "Or do you intend for us to have yet another battle of wills that will leave you groping around on the ground like a blind child once more?"_

"_Please," Regina whispers out tiredly, the fight leaving her quite suddenly. "You've made your point." And he has. Entirely too well for her liking. She feels every bit of the helpless and controlled woman that she is._

"_See? That was easy. But no, not yet."_

"_But –"_

"_Not yet because there's one more lesson that you've to learn."_

"_And what's that?"_

"_What the line feels like." He extends his hand to her, offering her the heart, which sits nestled into his palm. "Go on; take it."_

_She frowns, but shaking more than she cares to admit to, does as it told. It's strange to hold her own heart within her hands. Surreal even._

"_Now squeeze it."_

"_You want me to hurt myself?"_

"_You won't know what it feels like otherwise. The line between life and death is so very thin, and if you don't know –"_

"_Fine." She takes a breath and then gives her own heart a soft squeeze. It causes an uncomfortable tingling sensation in her chest, but that's it._

_He laughs. "Well that was pathetic. Squeeze it like it's Snow White's."_

_Her eyes snap up to him. "Be silent."_

"_Sore subject?"_

"_She's a child," Regina insists._

"_So, you keep telling yourself in order to try to stop the thoughts you're having, but deep down, you know she's not just that." He leans towards her, his hand sliding over hers. "Deep down, you know that she did what she did to you in order to ensure that she could get what she wanted."_

_She squeezes harder now, and immediately wincing, tries to stop._

_So that's when he decides to help her. His hand closes over hers and he presses inwards, tightening the grasp, folding both of their palms over the frantically beating heart. "Feel it," he whispers._

_And she does. Even as agony crashes through her, she feels the power of life and death surging through her fingers. She feels the control._

_She feels death._

_She gasps in both pain and pleasure._

_She crashes to the ground once more, only somewhat aware that Rumple has caught her on the way down. Her eyes are on the sky and she's staring, lost in the dual sensations, mesmerized by the conflicting feelings and emotions._

"_I think that's enough," she hears Rumple says, his voice high and amused. _

_A moment later, she feels him pull her heart from her fingers, and then there's a strange kind of warmth within her body and then suddenly, her heart is back within her own chest. It doesn't quite feel right, though._

_In fact, it rather feels like it doesn't completely belong to her anymore._

_As she pushes herself back to her feet, trying to ignore the sudden nausea, she looks up at him. "I understand," she says, her hand settling atop her chest. Her fingers drum there, as if feeling out the beat beneath them._

"_Good," and his voice is suddenly quite serious. "Then our work here today is done. I warn you, though; be careful about how you go about practicing these new skills of yours. Take only the hearts that you must. Any more than that and you will arouse suspicions."_

"_Control, power and death," she says softly, almost to herself. She looks at her hands, clenches one of them, and then releases it, as if testing her grip._

_He steps behind her. She feels him turn her body, moving her around so that she's facing the kingdom below her. Her hand settles on her shoulder._

"_Over all of this," he tells her. "In time."_

_Her eyes slide closed and a tear trickles from them, because no, this is never what she had ever wanted. She'd wanted a quiet home with a gentle lover and she'd wanted peace and a family._

_And love._

_That's all lost to her now._

_And so now, she'll settle for this._

_Control. Power. And death._

_She nods her head, her eyes hardening. "In time," she repeats._

_She thinks she feels her heart – newly returned to her – squeeze in pain, burning hot within her, as if it's on fire. As if it's burning._

_And turning to charcoal._

* * *

She jerks forward in her bed, her eyes wide and panicked. The images are still fresh in her mind, and perhaps it's the fact that she so seldom recalls her nightmares that causes these horrific scenes to frighten her all the more. Within seconds of coming to, she's climbing from her sheets.

She hits the ground loudly, her knees colliding with the carpet. The left one tears open, as if burnt. She hisses and pushes herself up, but before she can get even up on her elbows, she's struck by the image of herself lying on the grass of the hilltop, writhing around as Rumple stands above her.

Squeezing the life from her and demanding that she beg him to stop.

Her hands go to her chest, and she desperately feels for her heart, her fingers bending as if to try to reach within herself.

It's useless, of course, because there's no magic out here.

And her heart is still within her chest. Pounding away in time with her fear.

"Just a dream," she tells herself.

That only makes things that much worse.

She pulls herself upwards, steadying herself using the dresser.

She sees Graham, then, her hand clenched around his heart as it turns to ashes, as they slip between her fingers along with the sands of his life.

She sees her father, his eyes wide as she shoves her hand into his chest.

And then she sees her mother standing in the middle of Gold's shop, her back to the door as Regina rushes inwards, a cursed heart in her hands.

"No," Regina whimpers, stumbling from the room. She uses the walls to brace herself, and though she has no idea how she does it, she makes her way outside, out to the garage.

She leaves the door open as she races towards the heavy bag, her feverish and tortured mind focused only on finding a way to make the pain stop.

A way to make the visions stop.

But they don't.

They won't.

The glassy and distantly staring eyes of the executed villagers stare up at her, wide and condemning even in death. That she hadn't actually killed these people herself matters not; their blood is forever on her hands.

She starts to hit the bag, slamming her fists against it as hard as she can. She feels pain, but it doesn't actually register. She hits hard, harder. Her skin cracks and then breaks, and blood streams between her fingers.

She feels nothing but the pounding of her heart.

Like it's about to break through her chest.

Tears stream down her cheeks and she screams, her fists hitting the bag in staggering streaks of frantic motion.

"_I know who I am," she hears herself tell Archie outside of her house._

"_You've been bad for too long," Cora reminds her from the passenger seat._

"_The one thing no one can escape," Gold taunts her through the bars of the jail-cell. "Destiny. And I promise, yours is particularly unpleasant."_

"_We know how you are," Emma yells at her as they stand nose to nose in front of her mansion. "And who you will always be."_

"_I don't want to be you," Henry insists, disgust in his eyes._

She cries out again, her body continuing to move as if possessed as she tries to force out all of her dark feelings. Her bloodied fists slam violently against the bag, each punch more painful than the previous one, each hit releasing a little more of her self-hatred and self-loathing.

A little more of her rage and hurt.

Until something stops her.

Until something grabs her and pulls her back and away from the bag.

No, not something - someone.

Emma.

"Stop," she hears. "Regina, you have to stop."

Strong arms circle her, coming together across her chest. Two hands lay atop each other, in the middle of her breasts, an open palm cupping over a closed fist. Unable to prevent it, Regina feels herself being pulled against the sheriff's body, and then they're both falling backwards.

"_You have no soul. How in the hell did you get like this?" Emma demands, standing in the doorway of the Mayor's office, hands on her hips._

"_That woman lost much," she hears her own voice whisper, her eyes drawn to the flicker of a tiny candle. "And now she's gone." _

Teeth grit as she tries to bite back a sob, she again lifts a hand to her chest and places her fingers over Emma's pressing downwards toward her heart.

She feels it there, pounding away beneath their combined touch.

Broken and blackened and so terribly damaged.

"_I don't want power," she hears herself tell her mother in a voice so terribly innocent and naive. "I just want to be free." _

"_But I believe, given the chance, we can find happiness. Together," her father assures her. "But the choice is yours."_

"_There are lines even we shouldn't cross," Maleficent warns her. "All power comes with a price. Enacting it will take a terrible toll. It will leave an emptiness inside of you. A void you will never be able to fill."_

"_Because despite what you think," Mary Margaret tells her, "It won't make you happy; it's only going to leave a giant hole in your heart."_

"_Then I am lost," she tells Rumple as she slumps against a table._

Desperately, Regina lunges for the bag again, but Emma holds her tight, securely. "I've got you," the sheriff says quietly, her voice a whisper.

"_This would have been enough. You would have been enough," her mother insists, looking up at her, her eyes wide with understanding as she dies._

"_I'm sorry, and I forgive you," Graham reads, his eyes on Snow's letter._

"_Then love again," Daniel begs._

Her mouth opens and this time she doesn't try to hold back the sob.

This time, she can't.

**TBC…**


	12. 9

**A/N:** So, this one is a bit long and dramatic and terribly emotional. I considered splitting it up, but it all pretty much bleeds together as this is a major turning point for our ladies. So, apologies for the length, but I hope you enjoy it just the same.

Warnings for a spot of violence, some mild Henry douchery and some slightly crass language.

Thanks as always for the terribly kind comments; they are very much appreciated.

* * *

Though it pains her to admit such, it takes a still half-asleep Emma Swan more than a few minutes to figure out where the hitting/weeping sound is coming from. At first, as she leans forward in her bed, pushed upwards on her forearms, she thinks that there must be an intruder out in the kitchen, and her mind runs in absurd circles trying to explain exactly why someone breaking into the house would be crying. It makes absolutely no sense.

Of course, then she thinks about Henry and Regina, and protecting them (yes, them, she realizes with a bit of a surprise), and suddenly it doesn't actually matter why the intruder is upset.

It just matters that he or she is stopped before anyone is hurt.

She rises slowly from her bed, reaching for the hoodie that she'd tossed off before she'd climbed beneath the sheets. She pulls it over her head, and then for a long second or two, she just stands in the middle of her room trying to figure out what to do next. If there is an intruder, she needs to grab her gun, she thinks, and she needs to be ready to fire it as needed.

But then she hears the agonizing sound again – pained, awful and gut wrenching – and she knows for a fact that no one has broken into the house.

That, and the crying is coming not from inside, but rather from outside.

She looks over towards the open window next to her bed, and that's when she sees the bright yellow light shining out from the garage. It's the one part of the house that runs adjacent to her room, and right about now she'd like to kick herself for not realizing what was going on much sooner.

That sound? Well it's the sound of someone hitting the living shit of the heavy bag that's hanging from the ceiling in the garage.

Which means that the person who is making that awful noise is Regina.

* * *

As she rushes into the garage, Emma finds that she's not one bit surprised to find the former queen slamming her body against the bag with the kind of force that would make a heavyweight boxer green with envy. She's not even all that shocked to see the blood running down the woman's hands and arms thanks to several gaping cuts torn into the flesh of Regina's typically delicate fingers. What does stun her is the way Regina is screaming as she punches (occasionally missing completely) out at the bag.

It's like she's completely lost her mind.

Which knowing Regina, she probably has.

Emma thinks to call out for the former queen, but past experience dealing with both Regina and other people who have been in the state that she's clearly in tells her that the brunette woman won't hear her, anyway; it'd be a waste of time and energy. So, instead, she stays quiet and simply moves forward, moving to stand behind Regina. She doesn't say a word until she has her arms around Regina's shuddering frame. "Stops," she insists, her tone firm. "You have to stop."

But, of course, Regina doesn't just give in; she doesn't actually know how to do so even if she had actually wanted to – even if doing so would spare her immeasurable pain. Instead, she pushes against Emma, struggling and fighting, and refusing to let down even when it's for the best.

Emma responds by wrapping her arms tighter around Regina, her hands joining in the middle of Regina's chest, an open palm resting atop a balled one and pressing downwards in order to apply force and establish control over the disturbingly hyper-emotional woman, who continues to struggle.

She feels Regina shake against her, and she sees the way that Regina is looking upwards, her eyes staring straight ahead as if she's looking directly at something or someone. As if she's lost within her own thoughts.

As if she's lost within her own troubled mind.

They fall backwards together, hitting the ground with a loud thump. Emma's backside protests the contact, but she pushes the momentary discomfort away, instead focusing completely on the distraught woman within her arms.

She feels rather than sees Regina drop her hands to her chest, settling them atop Emma's, and then there's pressure as Regina pushes downwards, towards her heart, like she's trying to get to it. Like she's trying to feel the beating of it. It echoes through their adjoined hands, loud and desperate.

And then suddenly, Regina is surging forward once more, as if she's trying to get to the bag. Emma holds her tight, though, using all of her strength to keep the frantic former queen in place. "I've got you," she whispers.

Apparently, that's all it takes because just like that, Regina comes apart.

Teeth grit, her muscles in her neck straining as she leans forward, the former queen begins to sob. It's violent and horrible, and for a terribly long moment, Emma can do little but watch in open mouthed shock as the woman in her arms cries nearly hysterically into the cold air of the garage, a thousand old and new hurts spilling out and exposing themselves like bloody war wounds which are now absent their once protective scabs.

"Regina," she finally whispers, her voice shaking, the word just barely loud enough to be heard over the sound of Regina's gasping sobs.

She gets no reply beyond the continued crying, and it occurs to her that until this – whatever this is - is done, there's nothing that she can go do instead of trying to stop it, she simply tightens her hold on Regina.

Then, absent anything else to do, but try to offer some degree of comfort, she whispers softly into Regina's ear, saying over and over that it will all be okay. Somewhere along the way, sometime during all the rocking and promising, exhaustion overtakes her - overtakes them both – and her head drops backwards. Her arms stay tight and secure around Regina's torso, their heads still connected atop the Queen's frantically beating heart.

Even when everything seems to drift away, she doesn't let go of Regina.

She doesn't know exactly why she doesn't, but something tells her that it's never been more important to hold on than it is right now.

* * *

She has no idea how much time passes. She doesn't actually fall asleep; she more dozes out and loses contact with reality for a time. Everything turns shades of black, white and gray, and for a while, Emma just stares straight ahead, her arms still wrapped tight around Regina's trembling body.

It's the feeling of Regina separating herself with a kind of frantic anxiety that brings Emma fully back to her senses. Her head pounding from the rough contact with the cement surface, Emma watches from her semi-laid out position on the ground as Regina rolls herself away, and then quickly scurries – in a decidedly un-Queen like manner – across the garage.

"Regina," she sighs, as she places a hand on the ground to push herself up.

"Stay there," the former Queen snaps out, a finger lifted up as if to keep Emma away from her. She's practically panting with badly disguised panic.

"Regina," she tries again. "It's okay –"

"It's not! This isn't…this is your fault," Regina says sharply, and that's when Emma sees the glassy look in the former queen's red-rimmed eyes.

"My fault?" Emma repeats. Then, with a bit of annoyance, "How's that?"

"You made me remember," Regina growls, her hand curling into a tight fist as she fights for control that seems to be flowing past her like water.

"Remember what?" Emma presses as she finally pushes herself up to her feet. Wincing slightly as her muscles protest the sudden movement, she takes a couple slow cautious steps towards Regina, and then stops.

"My dreams," comes the still not quite connected to reality response. There's an odd lilt to Regina's voice, like she's still stuck in her own mind.

"I…I don't know what –"

Emma's barely gotten the stammered words out of her very dry mouth before Regina is back across the room and up in her face, her eyes snapping fire. It's weird, though, because while she's absolutely there physically, she still seems completely absent mentally. "You did this to me," Regina hisses. "I was fine until you forced me to remember. And now they won't stop."

"Who are they? Who won't stop?" Emma asks, holding her ground even though Regina is almost painfully close. She can smell the former queen's scent – earthy and salty mixed with something that smells a whole lot like sweat and fear. It's intoxicating and unsettling and Emma finds herself wanting to run both towards Regina and away from her all at the same time.

"They want me to know who I am," Regina babbles out, shaking her head. "Do they really think that I don't know who I am? Do they really think that I don't know what I've done? What I am? Do you think that? Do you?"

"No, " Emma says softly, reaching out to gently wrap a hand around Regina's wrist. She feels the warm wetness of blood there, and finds herself forcibly reminded of the ugly cuts that now mar Regina's knuckles. "I think you know entirely too well who you are, Regina. I think you always have."

"Then why did you make me remember?" Her eyes are wide and terrified, and there's something chillingly young and innocent lurking in there. "I was doing fine. I was fine. I was…I was…" Her words are swallowed up by a harsh coughing sound, like her throat has suddenly closed up on her.

"But you weren't," Emma counters. "You weren't fine, Regina, and forcing yourself to forget what you've done won't help you to deal with it."

"It helped me!" Regina screams, and her suddenly red face shades with enough hurt and pain to let Emma know that wherever Regina's mind was previously, she's right here now, and emotionally, she's bleeding out all over the place. She steps away from Emma, and starts pacing around, turning her back on the blonde sheriff as she moves around. Her stride is long and agitated, and yet there's something quite predatory about it.

Emma wonders idly if this is what the Evil Queen had looked like when she'd been stalking around her palace, high as a kite on fury and dark magic. Had she seemed to those around to be terrifying and yet fascinating then, too?

"Did it?" Emma replies, forcing a flat tone. "You locked everything you ever did away, everything you ever felt. You even locked your conscience away."

Regina snaps around, her dark eyes flashing malevolently. An odd sneer crosses her lips. When she finally speaks, her voice is suddenly low and almost silky in its' purposeful cruelty. "What would you know about a conscience, Miss Swan? The hardest decision that you've ever had to make it whether or not to screw another woman's husband."

Swallowing back the instinctual urge to fire back at Regina, Emma instead nods her head slowly. She knows what this is, knows exactly what Regina is trying to do, and she's determined that after all of this – after they've been through both back in Storybrooke and here - she's not going to let it work.

She's resolute that she's going to be the bigger woman, and she's going to stand tall and let these blows hit against her without fighting back. She's dead set that even if it hurts a little bit – or even a lot - she's going to be the punching bag that Regina so desperately needs right now because the real one, which is still swaying back and forth, isn't going to cut it tonight.

"I've done my fair share of shitty things," Emma answers simply after a few long intense seconds, punctuating her words with a small sad smile. "I have a pretty damned good idea what it means to hear that little voice."

"This isn't a fairytale, dear," Regina snorts derisively. "There's no cricket sitting on my shoulder. Or yours for that matter."

"No, there's not. Not out here at least" Emma agrees. "But that doesn't change the truth of what we've done. That doesn't change who we are."

"And who am I, Emma?" Regina asks, stepping close to her again. They're practically touching now, little more than half an inch separating them.

"You're Regina."

"No," Regina breathes, her eyes wild. "I'm the Evil Queen, you silly girl." She leans even further in, and Emma's struck by the bizarre thought that she's about to be kissed – claimed even. It takes everything she has not to swallow, to hold herself steady and not flinch beneath the intensity.

"Are you still her?" Emma challenges. "Because I don't think you are. I think this is all just a familiar mask that you slip on whenever you get scared."

Regina laughs, the sound cold and sharp and entirely too forceful to be completely real. "How many masks are you aware of that have as much blood and death on them as mine does?" Another cold laugh and then she adds on, "What makes you think this is a mask and not just the real me?"

"Because I know who you are, Regina."

Another laugh. "You think so, do you? Tell me, Sheriff, do you really believe that a little bit of kickboxing can change me into something better? You think the ocean can make me anything more than the murderer that I am?"

"No, but I do think you don't have to be that person anymore. And what's more? I don't think you want to be her anymore. And I think that all of this – this whole fit you're throwing right now - is just you being afraid."

"Of you?" Regina asks, the derision clear. "Hardly."

"No, not of me, though maybe you are afraid of me, too. But I think mostly you're afraid of facing the things you see in your dreams. The things you've done. That's what you've been blocking out your dreams for so long."

"You want to know what's in my dreams?" Regina asks, smiling coldly.

"Yes," Emma replies immediately, squaring her shoulders, and readying herself for an answer that she instinctively knows is going to hurt like hell.

"Graham," Regina hisses, leaning in once more. "I dreamt about killing him." She bares her perfect white teeth as she speaks, her dark eyes narrowed and cruel. The vicious lie pours forward, "I dreamt about the power and the joy and the satisfaction that I felt when I crushed his heart to –"

Emma never lets her finish the sentence; something cold and hurt and angry snaps inside of her, and suddenly she has her hand around Regina's throat and is throwing them both backwards against the far wall of the garage.

"Stop," she demands, tightening her hand.

Regina laughs, the sound almost hysterical.

"Stop," Emma says once more and then slams Regina into the wall. She hears the pained grunt, but in front of her eyes, all she sees is red.

"Tell me," Regina taunts. "Did he look like he was in pain when he died?"

"Fucking stop," Emma gasps out now, her throat closing around the words even as her hand jerks forward to slam Regina against the wall once more.

"Good," the former queen whispers, blinking fiercely as she tries and fails to force tears back. "Then maybe it's time you make me pay for that. Maybe it's time, my dear Savior, that you give me what I deserve."

"What you deserve?" Emma repeats in a barely audible voice, and just like that, the switch inside of her gets thrown again, and she's staring at her hand which is wrapped around Regina's throat, her fingers pressed into delicate skin. Regina's head is against the wall, and her eyes are squinted in pain. Emma sees the tears running down Regina's ashen cheeks, and she shakes her head in disbelief, realizing that she's been played.

Realizing that she'd allowed her anger to be manipulated and controlled.

Which, of course, is exactly when Henry decides to show up. The kid has slept through dozens of nights of bad dreams and cries coming from his Regina's room, but apparently a fight between his mothers' is enough to pull him from his bed. He enters the garage, his eyes widening as he takes in the sight of Emma holding Regina against the wall by her throat.

"Emma!" he cries out. "Stop! What are you doing? Let her go!"

Her hand falls away from Regina's now bruised throat. She imagines that within a few hours, the Queen is going to have some vivid color there.

"You're supposed to be helping her," he insists.

"Henry," Emma starts, and then stops because how the hell can she even begin to explain what had just occurred between she and Regina. She clenches her hand at her side in order to try to stop it from trembling.

She should have seen this coming, she knows; after all, Regina is a pro at self-destruction. She could teach a Master Class in how to manipulate people in order to push them away before they can get too close.

"You promised you'd help her."

"I…"

"She tried," Regina says suddenly. Looking more than a little shaky, she steps away from the wall and approaches him, wincing sharply as she drops down to a knee in front of him, doing what she always does and insisting on being on his level to speak to him. "I did this, Henry" she tells him, her voice trembling. "I attacked her; she defended herself. This is my fault."

"Regina," Emma tries to cut in, reaching out a hand, but grasping only air.

"I'm sorry that I keep letting you down," Regina tells him, ignoring Emma.

"I thought you were getting better?" he asks, so young and confused.

Her eyes close for a moment, and more tears stream out. "I'm sorry," she says again because everything else sounds like a lie.

"I don't understand," he tells her.

"Things got out of control," Emma offers up, stepping towards them. She puts a hand on his shoulder. "That's all."

"You were choking her."

"She was defending herself," Regina tells him once more, and then refuses to look Emma's way when the blonde sheriff throws her an incredulous look.

"Maybe coming here was a mistake," he states, shaking his head.

"Henry, no," Emma insists. "It's not –"

"Maybe everyone else was right. Maybe she can't be saved," he snaps, his face corkscrewing into one of betrayal. "Maybe we should just go home."

He doesn't allow either of them a chance to answer, just turns and storms away from them, rushing back towards the house.

"Why?" Emma says softly, turning to face the former queen. "Why are you so damned determined to burn everything down around you?"

"Because he's right," Regina answers. "And it's time you realized it and let go of this ridiculous notion of yours, Sheriff; I can't be saved."

"Regina –"

"Enough."

"No! Regina, I saw – I heard you. I held you while… I know what you're doing right now and I know what you were doing by talking about Graham. You think I'm that easy to push away? You think Henry is?"

"Yes, I do. So please, don't let me down this time."

"Let you down? What –"

Regina lifts her chin up and gazes directly at Emma, their eyes meeting, brown on green. "You lost your faith in me when I needed it the most; don't make a fool of yourself and keep it when I deserve it the least."

"Life isn't always about what we deserve," Emma insists.

"No," Regina nods. She smiles sadly, then. "It's not." And with that, she turns and walks away, following Henry out of the garage.

Leaving Emma alone to wonder what the hell had just happened.

* * *

Morning rolls around a few short hours later, and though she's exhausted out of her mind, Emma reluctantly pulls herself from her bed, and makes her way into the kitchen. She considers a beach run, but everything is entirely too weary and sore for that, and so instead she starts on breakfast.

Henry comes out of bedroom at his normal time, and sits down at the table, his expression morose and sulky, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

"Hey," she says from her position behind the counter. She's making bacon and cheese omelets this morning because she knows how much he loves them, and right now he looks like he could use something to smile about.

"Hey," he grouses, leaning back in his chair. She wonders idly if he gets not only the petulance, but also the terrible posture from her.

The temper and irrational behavior certainly have to come from Regina, she thinks as she watches him crumble up a napkin in his fist.

"Did you happen to see your mom in the hallway?" she asks as she flips the omelet. She tries to keep her tone light and gentle, but he sees right through her, giving her a look of annoyance that's almost patronizing.

That expression comes from Regina, too, she's certain.

"No," he finally says as she drops the ruined napkin on to the table, and then almost compulsively goes about smoothing it out.

"Well, why don't you go get her? Breakfast is just about up."

He blinks, confusion shining in his green eyes, like he can't quite figure out why she would want to pretend like everything is normal and okay after what he'd seen and heard in the garage. Why would she want to break bread with a woman who had attacked her as his dark-haired mother had?

"Please?" Emma presses.

"Fine," he grumbles, standing up. He makes his way down the hallway and knocks on Regina's door. "Mom," he calls out. "Breakfast is ready."

The door opens a few moments later, and it's only because he's so young that he doesn't see and understand just how tired and worn down she is.

Even so, even he can see quite plainly see that something isn't quite right with his adopted mother.

_She_ doesn't seem right.

"Henry," she smiles, the expression both sad and oddly discomforting. She reaches out as if to touch his chin in a way that she has done a hundred times before, but pulls up short, balling her fingers into a fist instead. Then, as if realizing the defensive nature of the gesture, she forces her hand to loosen, and it instead settles shakily against the cotton of her slacks.

"Breakfast is ready," he tells her, frowning as he gazes at her hand. He sees the gashes there. They're cleaned out, but still vivid and angry, and he wonders where they'd come from considering the fact that it'd been Emma he'd seen holding Regina in place earlier that morning. True, Regina had claimed to have attacked first, but he hadn't noticed marks on Emma.

Weird, he thinks, eyes locked on the cuts and the uncomfortable way she's moving her hands around, like she's in more than a little bit of pain.

"Thank you, dear," she tells him, drawing his eyes back up towards her face. And that's when he notices the ring of bruises around her throat – perfect purplish fingerprints dug into the skin. "But I'm not hungry this morning."

"You should still…you should eat with us. It's what…it's what we do."

She swallows, and for a moment looks as though she might relent, but then says in a tightly controlled voice, "I need to lie down, dear."

There's a crisp finality to her words that makes him nod his head. She sounds a lot like the woman he'd lived with during the months after Emma had come to town – the ones before the curse had broken. That woman had been cold and distant even as she'd tried so desperately to hold onto him.

He watches the door close in his face, and then turns and walks back down the hall, dropping himself into the chair at the table.

"Is she coming?" Emma asks, glancing up from the stovetop.

"No. She said she needed to lie down. I think…I think she's not feeling well." He thinks about the bruises he'd seen on his mom's neck, and instinctively, his left hand comes up and he touches at his own throat, feeling the unblemished skin there. He frowns. "I think she's hurt."

"Maybe she's having one of her headaches," Emma offers, adding on a tight smile that does absolutely nothing to reassure either of them.

"Yeah," he says as he watches her place the plate in front of him. The omelet there is big and full of bacon and mushrooms. It smells fantastic, and his stomach growls appreciatively. Still, he simply stares at it.

"Henry –"

"Can I have some orange juice?" he asks suddenly, looking up at her. She gets the feeling that he's taking another page out of Regina's book; he's pushing her away, refusing to let her in when he needs her the most.

And the worst part is, she doesn't have a clue what to do about it. "Sure, kid," she says with what she hopes is a comforting smile. "Of course."

"Thanks." And then he drops his head, and focuses on his omelet.

She sighs, glances down the hallway towards Regina's room, and then makes her way to the refrigerator to collect the orange juice for him.

* * *

"Hey, sorry for calling so early. Am I bugging you?" she asks, holding her cell phone to her cheek. She's standing outside on the deck, a hot mug of coffee nestled in one hand. It's a cool morning, and there's a light mist hanging down in the air. As she talks, she faces the water, eyes on the surf.

"Pun intended?" he asks, and she hears him chuckle.

She winces. "God, no. Sorry, that's just me being well, me." She lifts the mug up to her lips, and takes a long drink from it, closing her eyes as the smooth taste of Regina's vanilla bean coffee rushes over her tongue.

"That's okay," Archie tells her, and she can just about see him smile. When he speaks again, his voice is typically warm. "What can I do for you, Emma?"

"You're not going to ask how things are going with me and Regina?"

"Well, honestly, I'm assuming that if you're calling to check in with me for the first time in almost a month that the answer to that is 'not good', right?"

"Yeah. I need some advice," she replies with a tired sigh. She watches as a high wave crashes the beach, depositing several long branches. She thinks about going down after the call is over and collecting them for the fort.

"Do I get to know details this time?"

"What do you think?"

"Right. Good. She needs that from you. Trust."

"Yeah, that that's kind of the problem. Without telling you too much, we kind of got into it this morning. More to the point, she kind of…well, I think the best way to say it is that she manipulated me into a reaction."

"I'm guessing it wasn't a good one."

"No. It was…exactly what she wanted."

"Ah. And right now your relationship is?"

"Feels like we've gone back to square one."

"Which you think was her intention when she started the fight?"

"I think her intention was to piss me off and hurt me enough to make me want to grab Henry and walk away from her."

"I see," Archie says. In the background, Emma hears Pongo bark.

She chuckles. "Well, I'm glad you do. Can you help me see?"

She hears Archie shush Pong, and then, returning to the phone he says, "Tell me something, Emma; what made you fall into her manipulation?"

"She pushed my buttons. One specifically."

"One that she knew would get the reaction she wanted?"

"Yes."

"Did you know what she was doing while she was doing it?"

"Yes."

"So why did you fall into it?"

Emma considers her answer for a moment, sighing before she says, "Regina has a way of making me lose my head, and I guess…I don't know."

"Your instincts told you what she was doing, right?"

"Yeah."

"But you stopped trusting them?"

"Same answer as before."

"So maybe that's the answer here, too, then; you have to trust yourself, Emma. Every time you deal with Regina, every time you get close, something happens and you stop relying on your instincts. You let emotion take over and she pushes you away or you break trust with her."

"This time she forced that."

"Because last time when you thought she killed me, you did so willingly."

"Yeah, she mentioned that," Emma says with a wince, lifting a hand up to weave it into her hair. She winds her fingers through her curls, clenching for a moment before dropping her hand down again, gazing at her fist.

"Whatever caused Regina to push back on you was something that scared her enough to give up on what's actually been working for the two of you for the last several weeks. That alone should tell you that you're making massive progress. Now's when you have to trust yourself more than ever, Emma. Now's when you have to trust your instincts."

"So you're saying I have to keep pushing."

"That's exactly what I'm saying. Regina is used to everyone giving up on her or walking away from her or choosing someone or something else. She probably expects that after whatever happened between the two of you today that you'll give up as well. If you're serious about helping her – and yourself – then you have to be strong enough to let her know you're not going anywhere no matter what she throws at you. She wants to open to you, Emma. She wants someone to trust. She just needs to believe that that person won't betray her."

"Got it. Thanks, Archie."

"Of course."

"Hey, how's Mary Margaret doing?"

"She's fighting," he says. "She's tough."

"Good. Thanks again."

"If you need me –"

"I know where you are. Bye."

* * *

"Ice cream?" Henry asks, an eyebrow lifting up. It's a fairly cool day, even at twenty minutes past two in the afternoon, but he's still a kid, and there's absolutely no way that he'll say no to ice cream. Even if he's suspicious.

"Thought we could share a sundae," Emma shrugs as she places the massive bowl full of different flavored scoops and syrups of in front of them. They're sitting across from each other at a table inside the local ice cream store.

They'd gone into town together to do grocery shopping for the week, and this had seemed as good a place as any for the conversation that she wants to have with Henry. And hey, a chance to share ice cream is always a plus.

"Sure," he agrees as he places his spoon into the bowl. After a few bites from each of the strawberry, vanilla and chocolate scoops, and several moments of slightly awkward silence from Emma, he looks up at his blonde mother and say, "So what did you want to talk to me about?"

"Am I that obvious?"

"Yes."

"Awesome. Can we pretend I'm not?"

"No."

"Even more awesome. Fine, I was hoping we could talk about your mom."

"You going to tell me what happened last night?"

She chuckles.

"What?"

"You're the second person today who has asked me that."

"Archie?"

"You heard me speaking to him on the phone. Kid, you really have got to stop eavesdropping. It's not cool." she scolds. Or tries to anyway.

He simply shrugs his shoulders, and blows off the honestly fairly weak attempt at scolding him, saying instead, "Yeah. I heard you say mom manipulated you into what happened."

"She did," Emma nods. "She intentionally pushed my buttons until I lost control of myself and attacked her. That's what you walked in on."

He blinks, clearly surprised to be hearing the truth from her. "Why?"

"Why did I attack her or why did she push my buttons?"

"Both."

"Well, I did it because she pissed me off. She did it because she's scared, Henry. She's starting to remember and really think about all the bad things that she's done and that's terrifying for her. Your mom's usual way of handling fear is to try to run away from it. Or in my case, since she knows I'm not going to let her do that, she chose to try to push me away."

"Did it work?"

"Yeah, it did. You remember what I told you the first night we got here?"

He shakes his head, and then reminds her, "That was four weeks ago."

"Yeah. I told you that your mom knows how to push my buttons better than just about anyone. And I know how to push hers, but this was all about her trying to get me to run because…well, that's what I've always done."

"But not anymore," he insists.

"Not too long ago," she reminds him. "Remember, the day you ate the turnover, I was trying to leave town. I was trying to run. It's what I've always done, Henry. It's how I've protected myself, and you know what, Kid, I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but I think maybe it's time you hear some honesty in this whole mess. Maybe it's time you realize I'm no saint."

"I know that," he says, and she knows immediately that he doesn't actually.

"Mm," she nods, reaching forward and taking a spoonful of strawberry ice cream that is heavily drizzled with chocolate syrup. After a moment, she says softly, "What happened this morning, Henry, it's as much my fault as it is hers. She pushed my buttons, but I knew exactly what she was doing, and I let her do it. I let her push me away. That's on me as much as it's on her."

"Why?"

"Because I stopped trusting myself." She shakes her head. "We brought your mom here because she needed a safe place to be where she could heal. She needed somewhere where she could face her past and grieve for her mother without thinking about my mother or vengeance or what people thought of her. We brought her here and promised to support her."

Their eyes meet.

"I didn't," he says, holding a spoonful of ice cream in mid air.

"Hey, no, you're a kid, Henry, and it is okay to get angry at your mom when she does things like she did this morning."

"What _did_ she do?"

"She reminded me of who she used to be," Emma says, refusing to say more than that. She already thinks she's telling him too much, but this entire conversation feels way overdue and completely necessary.

It feels like something that should have happened a very long time ago.

"Then I don't understand –"

"What I'm saying is, it's okay to get angry at her and wish she wouldn't do the sometimes bad things that she does when she gets scared and hurt, but it's not okay for us to lose faith in her ability to be saved, because that's what she believes already and she needs more from us than that."

He nods his head slowly. "I get it."

"Do you? Do you understand why I'm telling you all of this?"

He shakes his head. "Not really," he admits.

"What do you see your mother as?"

"She's mom," he offers up with a shrug.

"And?"

"She's the Evil Queen."

"And that's part of the problem. She _was_ the Evil Queen, Henry. Thirty years and a different world ago. That's not to say that she hasn't done some truly terrible things since then, but she's not the woman from your book, and to be honest, Kid, I'm not sure that she ever really was."

"But –"

"What did that book tell you about how she grew up?"

He frowns as he thinks about this. "Nothing."

"What about her marriage to your grandfather?"

"Nothing."

"What has it ever told you about how she feels about things?"

He shrugs his shoulders.

"Exactly. Your book for all the times that it's right about things is also very black and white in how it tells its stories. It's about love and winning and defeating the bad guys, but it never tells you about loss or pain or why the bad guys became who they were." She smiles sadly, reaching out to put her hand over his. "The reason I told you that I'm no saint, Henry, is because I'm not. My life before I met you wasn't easy, and I did some bad things, too."

"Not like her."

"No, not like her, but this world isn't like that one, and you know what, Kid? Who's to say what could have happened – what I might have been willing to do - if I'd been in her shoes over there. You just never know."

He thinks over her words for a moment, and then says softly, a deep frown marring his young face, "She seemed so sad this morning."

"I think she was. I think she believes that the one thing she really is good at is pushing people away, and I think that's what she thinks she did this morning. Which means it's up to us to prove her wrong." She leans towards him, lowering her voice and making it almost conspiratorial in nature, "You think we can do that? Prove to her that we believe in her?"

He nods his head in the affirmative. "Yeah."

"Cool," she says with a relieved smile. Then, using her spoon to slap at his, "Now get your spoon out of my strawberry. You can have the vanilla."

"I don't want the vanilla," he protests with an adorable wrinkle of his nose. "How about I get the strawberry and you get the chocolate."

"No. I'm the adult. I get the one I want."

"And I'm your son whom you love more than anything in the world and would do anything for," he reminds her.

"Which means what exactly?"

"Which means I get the strawberry, and you get the chocolate."

"You are your mothers' son," she grouses.

"Is that a good thing?" he asks, growing suddenly very serious again.

She considers his question for a moment, and then nods her head sharply, resolutely. "Yeah, because under all of the anger and hurt is a brave woman with a strong and loving heart. We just need to help her show it better."

"We can do that," he says.

"Yes, we can," she agrees. And then she reaches over and stabs her spoon into the chocolate ice cream. "But don't think I won't remember this."

He grins, and she thinks that maybe it's the most beautiful thing that she's ever seen. "Bring it," he says before jamming an overfilled spoonful of strawberry ice cream into his mouth. "Mm, delicious," he manages.

"You suck."

"Eat your ice cream, Emma," he says with a triumphant smirk.

"Yeah, definitely your mothers' son," she grumbles.

He grins again, and she laughs and wonders how she ever got so lucky.

It's then – as she lifting an admittedly delicious spoonful of chocolate ice cream to her lips – that she makes the vow to herself that she'll find a way to make Regina feel the exact same thing that she is right now.

* * *

Regina is sitting on the couch reading an old Crichton paperwork when they come in, both of their arms overloaded with bags of groceries. They stop when they see her, the two of them both regarding her with badly veiled curiosity and interest. They both seem pleased to see her, and she's not terribly sure as to why considering her last interactions with both of them.

"Do you need help?" she asks softly. Her eyes meet with Emma's for half a second, and then slide away, towards Henry. She offers him a small smile, but it doesn't quite meet her eyes. She looks so damned tired and worn out, and Emma can see the telltale frown lines on Regina's forehead, the ones that indicate that the former queen has likely been battling a rather severe migraine for most of the day. Not surprising considering how the somewhat debilitating headaches seem to be brought on my high stress and emotion.

"No, I got it," Emma assures her. "There are only a couple more bags. Besides, I think that cartoon that you like is on right now, isn't it, Kid?"

"Oh right," Regina nods, standing up. "I'll –"

"No, stay," Henry insists, reaching out and grabbing her hand to keep her from getting too far. He tightens it, squeezing it slightly. Her eyes track down to their adjoined hands, and she finds herself staring stupidly at them.

"You hate when I watch cartoons with you," she reminds him, tilting her head like she can't quite figure out what's happening here.

"That's because you always tell me how preposterous they are."

"Seriously? You do?" Emma asks, smirking a bit. "Why am I not surprised?"

She knows that this is a bit strange, the two of them acting like nothing is wrong even before they've had a chance to clear the air about what had happened this morning, but that's for later, she thinks. Right now, even if it's just pretending for a few minutes, it's nice to have some calm again.

"Cartoons are preposterous for the most part," Regina offers up weakly. "I mean that one with the roadrunner and the coyote is just absurd."

"It's also a classic," Emma chuckles.

"It's preposterous."

"Says the woman who can create cupcakes out of thin air."

"Well, yes," Regina agrees with a shrug. "I suppose you have a point there."

"Oh! Score!" Emma grins, and this whole moment is so utterly silly in both presentation and execution that Regina can't help herself from chuckling.

Which is when she feels Henry tug her hand again. "Watch with me."

"Are you sure, Henry? I can –"

"Please?" He gives her a look that is both pleading and unsure and she's overcome by the need to give him whatever he wants. That what he wants right now is to spend time with her makes it all just a bit easier.

"Of course, dear." She allows herself to be pulled back down onto the sofa, and then has to clench her jaw to keep herself from gasping when he just about presses himself against her side. Her arm goes around his back, and she scratches at his shoulder. He smiles up at her, and she responds in kind. "So," she says, her voice shaking just a bit. "What is this one about?"

"Batman," he says as he flicks on the LCD TV. The screen blinks to life, and after he changes the channel, darkly animated visuals spring forward.

"The lunatic who dresses like a rat?" she asks with a lifted up eyebrow. She vaguely remembers him from the comic books of Henry's that she's audited over the years. Behind them, in the kitchen, she hears Emma snort.

"A bat, Mom," Henry corrects with the kind of indignant sigh that only an eleven year old boy can muster up. "And he's a badass."

"Henry," she scolds, but it couldn't have less behind it if she tried.

"Sorry," he offers with an unapologetic shrug. "But trust me, you'll agree with me in a minute. He's like you and Emma if you were one person."

"That's actually kind of terrifying," Regina drawls.

"Have to agree with her, Kid," Emma says as she exits the kitchen, and heads towards the front door. "Can't we be two separate superheroes?"

"No," he says, then turns his attention back to the television.

He doesn't see the look his mothers exchange – one that says that there's a discussion still to be had, still some many things to be worked out, but that they both agree that this moment right here is something worth having.

Something worth holding on to.

* * *

They tuck him into bed together as they've done almost every night, but it's Regina that stays a few minutes longer, sitting on the edge of his bed, and listening to him as he talks about the ice cream sundae that he and Emma had shared earlier. She strokes the hair away from his forehead as he speaks, allowing her fingers to weave through the silky tresses.

Finally, reluctantly, "All right, Henry, I think it's time to close your eyes." She pulls the blankets up to his chin, and then wondering if he feels like he's being smothered, loosens them back up again before finally just patting the top of the bedspread, and resting her hand there to keep it from moving.

"Okay," he grumbles, reaching down to yank the blankets up over him.

She leans down and presses her lips against his forehead, leaving them for a moment longer than is probably necessary. When she lifts back home, she stays hovered over him for just a moment. "You know I love you don't you?"

He smiles. "You know I love you, don't you?"

It's an odd thing for him to say, and if she tried to describe the warmth that spreads through her chest, she honestly couldn't even begin to.

"Oh, sweetheart," she says instead, and then wipes at her eyes, not even bothering to hide the motion. "Have good dreams for me, okay?"

He nods his head. "Goodnight, Mom."

"Goodnight, Henry."

* * *

It's cold and late, and on any other night, she'd be sitting on the deck in a chair holding a glass of red wine in her hand. On this evening, though, she's lounging in the sand down by the water, the surf lapping at her bare feet.

She's been out here for almost an hour now, just staring ahead and thinking, trying to figure out a thousand things at once. Trying to figure out how to deal with all of the thoughts and voices that are suddenly in her head.

Trying to figure out what's going on with Henry, and whether it's a lie.

And wondering if she cares if it is.

At first, she doesn't recognize the sound of footsteps for what they are. She hears the noise behind her, but she thinks it's the swirling wind or the oncoming waves until the steps come closer, and then she realizes with a spot of panic that someone is approaching her from behind.

She thinks that maybe she should be wary and on edge (and she is), but the bone-deep exhaustion that weights on her so heavily keeps her from doing much more than turning her head to see who it is coming towards her.

And it's Emma Swan. Of course.

"Hey," Emma says, and Regina notices that the Sheriff is carrying four things with her – a large wool blanket, two glasses and a bottle of Jack Daniels.

"Sheriff," she greets, her voice throaty and thick from the crisp damp air.

"You look like you're freezing," Emma notes, gesturing towards the way Regina is shivering. And yes, she is cold and has been for the last hour. She's wearing a light hoodie, but the temperatures have dropped far below where even that is enough to keep her warm and comfortable.

"It's all right," Regina lies, and sometimes even she's surprised with just how easy it is to say something that is so very clearly a complete fallacy.

"Sure it is," Emma chuckles, then steps forward and drapes the wool blanket around Regina's shoulders. It's brown and ugly, but damned warm.

Regina considers protesting for a half a moment, but realizing that doing so would be petty and for no real reason at all beyond just to do it, she instead smiles out her thanks, and then, turning back towards the dark water that continues to run over her feet, says softly, "Why are you here, Emma?"

"I thought maybe we should talk."

"That hasn't really been going well for us."

"Actually, it has been," Emma corrects as she seats herself next to Regina. "It's the rest of the stuff that has been blowing up in our faces. You know, the part where you stop trusting me, and try to push me away."

"Well, you don't make it difficult," Regina tells her.

"Is that your way of telling me that you find it really easy to manipulate me?" Emma queries as she places the glasses on the sand. She opens up the bottle of Jack and fills both glasses to the top with the dark liquid.

"I knew exactly where to push," Regina says simply, eyes on the glasses.

"Yeah," Emma agrees, and then hands her a tumbler.

"Where did this bottle come from?" Regina queries as she accepts the drink, and brings it up towards her face. "I don't recall seeing it around before."

"I picked it up when I was out shopping today. This felt like a whiskey kind of discussion," Emma says, lifting the glass to her lips, and taking a gulp.

"Yes, probably," Regina agrees, taking a sip herself. If anyone were to watch the differences in the way the women drink, they'd simply nod their heads; Regina nurses the alcohol where as Emma practically inhales it.

It's all so completely them even when it's just liquor involved.

"Why Graham?" Emma asks after a few moments, and a few more gulps.

"Why Graham what?"

"Why was he what you threw in my face?"

Regina takes another sip, and then says, "Because I'm pretty sure it's the one thing that you still haven't forgiven me for." She turns her head to look at Emma, her dark eyes heavy. "For reasons I don't understand, you don't seem to blame me for the curse itself or how you grew up or even for separating you from your parents for twenty-eight years, but for him –"

"Yeah."

"I knew it was still an open wound for you."

"And for you?"

"I'm not sure I follow."

"Yes, you do. Is Graham's death still an open wound for you?"

Another sip, this one a larger one. A swallow and a breath as the alcohol burns its way down her throat and then in a low voice, "Yes."

"Did you actually dream about him last night?"

Regina looks over at Emma again, and their eyes meet for a moment. Emma gets the feeling like she's been scanned and gauged, and it takes everything she has no to shift beneath the intensity of the gaze that lingers on her.

She wonders if this is what the soldiers and knights who served under Regina felt like when they were called in for review?

Finally, Regina replies, "No."

"So it was all just about pushing me away."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I didn't want those dreams. I don't want them. I don't…I don't know what to do with them. I don't know how to handle them." There's so much honesty in her words, and it's almost overwhelming for both of them because for a moment, it looks to Emma like Regina is about to break again.

But then she pulls herself back together, her shoulders tightening as she straightens up her posture, her back sliding into perfect alignment.

"I'm sorry," Emma says softly. "I never meant for that. I just…I want you to actually be who you can be. Who I'm pretty damned sure you want to be."

"How do you know who I want to be?"

Emma shrugs her shoulders. "I saw you with Henry earlier this afternoon. And I've seen you with him a thousand other times. You want to be that person that you are when you're with him, the one who was watching Batman with him today and cheering on the Joker getting taken down."

Regina smiles softly at the memory. Then, growing serious again, "I'm not sure I can be that person. I'm not sure I even have the right to be." She shakes her head, swallowing roughly. "If I were any other person…"

"But you're not."

"No, I'm not; I'm the Evil Queen, Emma, and gods, the things I've done." She taps the side of her head. "I've always remembered everything, but I've done a damned good job of not thinking about them. They were what I had to do to survive. I was able to tell myself that and believe it."

"So what changed? Just the dreams?"

"Henry. And Graham. And you."

"Did you dream about me last night?" Emma asks, refilling both of their glasses. She shivers a bit as she does so, wishing she'd grabbed her jacket.

Regina laughs, the sound oddly but wonderfully warm. "No, dear."

Emma smiles in response, and lets the moment hang for a few seconds before she pushes again. "So, what did you dream about?"

"Why is it so important to know?"

Emma reaches out and takes Regina's hand, lifting it up. "Because this morning, you definitely broke rules one and two." She runs her finger lightly across one of the cuts on Regina's knuckle. "You freaked out pretty bad."

"So I did," Regina murmurs, lifting the glass up again.

"So?"

Regina sighs. "I dreamt about my magic lessons."

"And those made you lose it on the bag bad enough to do this to yourself?"

Regina licks her lips, and it's quite clear to Emma that this story is one that she finds uncomfortable, and more than a little painful. She'd love to tell the former queen that it's okay, and that they don't need to speak of this, but she knows that they do; it's never been more important to open up the lines of trust and communication between the two of them as it is right now.

"You know that Rumple was my teacher, yes?"

"I gathered as much."

"He taught me how to take hearts." She flexes her hands, wincing a bit at the sharp pain that courses through her wounded knuckles.

"And those are the ones in your vault?"

"Some, but what I dreamed about last night wasn't him showing me how to take them, but what to do with them." Another sip, and then one more for the courage to say the words, and then softly, "Control. Power. Death."

Emma tilts her head. "I don't –"

"When you take a heart, you can control the original owner of it," Regina tells her, and her voice has suddenly gotten very dull, like she's repeating information, like it hurts terribly to even say it. "You can make them do anything that you want them to. If I had your heart, and I told you to kill your mother, there would be nothing that you could do to stop it."

"I'm pretty strong."

"Not that strong," Regina tells her, and there's no joy in the way she says this. In fact, she seems more than a little sickened by her own words.

"Okay, we know your mother did that to Aurora."

Regina nods her head. "Lesson two is power. You can hurt someone terribly when you have their heart in your possession. You can squeeze it and cause them unfathomable pain. You can bring them to their knees." She looks forward again, and Emma's struck suddenly by the understanding that this has clearly happened to Regina before; she's been felled by such pain.

"You?"

"It was part of the lesson," Regina answers with a nod.

"And it hurt?"

"More than you can imagine. And just as controlling a heart can make you do things, power over it can force you to surrender yourself," Regina tells her, closing her eyes for a moment as cold memories once again wash over and through her. "It can make you say and do things – give up ownership of yourself – in ways that you would never have thought possible."

Emma lets this hang for a moment, and then, wanting to ease the pain that has settled over Regina, she softly pushes on, "So control, power and –"

"Death," Regina breathes, trembling a bit despite the blanket over her.

"How did he show you that one?"

Regina glances down at her wounded hand, which has suddenly clenched into a fist. "He squeezed my heart until I thought it was going to explode. And then he had me do the same to it so that I knew what it felt like both to have to done to myself and to do it to someone. In this case, myself."

"Jesus."

"It felt…horrible. And wonderful."

Emma's head snaps backwards. "Wonderful?"

"It's hard to explain, but it was power and control and death all wrapped into one surreal experience. It felt like I was a god even as it felt like I was being suffocated." She reaches forward and swallows down the rest of the glass of whiskey. For a moment, she looks terrified and panicked, but the alcohol seems to calm her enough to take a few deep breaths.

"More?" Emma prompts, holding up the bottle.

"Please."

Emma refills the glance and hands it back to her.

"So you dreamed of that last night?"

Regina nods her head. She gazes down at the amber liquid as she speaks, her voice very soft and slow. "I did terrible things both before and after that lesson, but that was the turning point for me in what I realized that I could do with my magic and my hands. It was when I saw that I could make others feel what I was, and I wanted that. I didn't want to be the one being hurt anymore. It felt good to make others hurt worse." She looks up, and there are tears in her eyes. "I did all of those things to Graham. All of them."

"I know. But I also know that you're not the Queen anymore," Emma says. "You're not even the woman that you were when you did that to Graham."

"Aren't I? Four weeks ago, I would have gladly done all of those things to your mother. Perhaps even more if there was a fourth lesson."

"There's not though, right?"

Regina smiles a bit at this, oddly appreciative of Emma's incredibly awkward attempt to lighten up the conversation. "No, dear, there's not."

"That's good. Look, my mother hurt you, Regina. She took something from you that she can't give back or make better. That doesn't make what you wanted to do okay, but it's not the same as just randomly hurting anyone."

"That's a very thin line of distinction, Emma; even I know that."

"But it is one that matters. Thirty years ago, it didn't matter who you destroyed. Now, at least it's just about the ones who hurt you first."

"You almost sound like you're encouraging me to go after your mother," Regina says with a lazy smirk. "In which case, I believe that this therapy of yours has failed spectacularly, Sheriff as I seem to have corrupted you."

This time, it's Emma who laughs. "No, I'm just saying progress is progress."

"Mm. I suppose."

They sit side by side for a few moments, drinking and listening to the waves crash the beach, and then Emma says, "There will be other dreams."

"Yes," Regina agrees. "And other nightmares. And I will probably break rules one and two several more times." She holds up her hand.

"Fine," Emma nods. "But how about next time I find you freaking out, maybe you don't try to push me away. Maybe you actually believe for once that I'm with you here because I want to be. Because I choose to be."

"I don't trust easily."

"Neither do I."

"And I will test you a thousand times over."

"Okay. As long as the tests are fair."

"I can't make that promise."

Emma shrugs her shoulders, shivering again as she does so. "All right, well, then, at least let me have a makeup test if I fail the original one. I mean; if you're going to cheat, I should get the chance to do so as well."

"What the hell kind of logic is that?" Regina challenges, unable to hide the smile that spreads across her lips and the eyebrow that leaps upwards.

Emma just grins in response.

"Do me a favor and don't teach Henry that logic, please?"

"As you said, I can't make that promise."

"You are infuriating, Sheriff."

"And you're a pain in the ass, Your Majesty."

"Yes, well, you're shivering."

"What?"

Regina rolls her eyes, and then, stretching her arm out, extends the wool blanket to settle over Emma's shoulders. They're sitting close to each other, but still a few inches apart, and it stretches the blanket a bit more than it should be, but not enough to remove warmth from either of them.

"Thanks," Emma says, pulling the blanket around her.

"Mm. So tell me, Emma, now what?"

"Now, we finish this bottle of whiskey and then we go to bed, and tomorrow we figure out what comes next."

"You make it sound so easy."

"No, I'm pretty sure we're both going to fuck this whole thing up about fifty more times, but hey, where would the fun be in not doing that."

"You have a strange idea of fun, dear."

"Pretty sure that was you I heard cackling with our son earlier today about Batman holding someone over a ledge by their ankles," Emma reminds her.

"Well, that did look like fun."

"Exactly my point." Using the hand that's not clutching the blanket to her shoulder, she reaches for the bottle of whiskey and brings it to her lips.

"Drinking straight form the bottle now are we?" Regina asks, eyebrow up.

Emma shrugs, and then offers her it.

Regina takes it and holds it in her hand. "I'm not sure I deserve this."

"Whiskey? Pretty sure everyone deserves some whiskey," Emma says with a grin that suggests that the liquor is starting to catch up to her.

Again, she offers a soft smile at Emma's attempt at humor. "This," Regina corrects. "I feel things that I've never wanted to feel, and I'm not sure have the right...I'm not sure I deserve another chance."

"Maybe not but you've got one anyway. So maybe you make the best of it."

"Maybe."

Regina lifts the bottle to her lips and takes a deep drag from it, enjoying the taste of the liquor which long ago stopped burning its way down her throat. She glances once more over at Emma, who is now staring out at the surf. Her dark eyes curious and fascinated, she studies the sheriff's seemingly serene profile. She looks her over, and then shakes her head in disbelief. There's no logic in this woman having the faith that she does. There's no reason for it and yet it's there just the same.

So yeah, maybe.

**TBC…**


	13. 10

**A/N:** This is pretty talky chapter. While the last one was a major turning point for our lovely ladies, this is some of the fallout and smoothing over of that.

I want to once again make it clear that while this **IS** a SQ fic that will eventually include romantic relationship aspects (coming very soon!), it is a slow burning and at times deeply frustrating though hopefully authentic feeling therapy fic first and foremost. It's a character piece about the exploration of pain and hurt and terrible actions committed in the name of anger and vengeance and heartbreak. It's about healing and moving forward even when you might not "deserve" the "right" to do so.

Warnings for the below: mild language, some retching and some Emma backstory created out of my damaged imagination.

**Enjoy!**

* * *

It's the sound of almost violent retching that pulls her from her slumber this time. She's about six hours into a fairly reasonable and comfortable night of rest – especially considering the far more turbulent one that had preceded this one – when her sleep-added brain begins to register the gagging noise.

Grumbling, Emma reluctantly slumps forward in her bed. Hands fisted, she rubs at her eyes like a child would, trying to force the sleep away.

Leave it to Regina not to be able to handle half a bottle of whiskey, she grouses to herself as she grabs at her blankets and pushes them away.

Actually, that doesn't seem quite fair or right.

She can still quite vividly recall the high alcohol content in the admittedly excellent apple cider that the former queen had offered Emma on her first evening in Storybrooke, and she knows for a fact that Regina is quite familiar with liquor (enough so that she'd thrown an accusation of being perhaps too familiar with it towards Regina during their first night hear at the beach house) so yeah; it is a bit surprising to hear her throwing up.

She climbs out of the bed and grabs her hoodie, biting back on the uncomfortable feeling of déjà vu that sweeps through her. Just a night previous, she'd been woken up the by the sound of screaming and crying, and following up on those things had led to an explosion of anger, pain and emotion.

And then, hopefully, an emotional breakthrough between she and Regina.

Just the same, she's in no real mood for a repeat.

She steps out of her room, and makes her way down the hallway, stopping abruptly when she comes to Henry's half-opened door. The sounds of throwing up that she's hearing, she realizes with a sharp and almost frantic start, are coming from within there.

Panicking just a little bit, she shoves the door the rest of the way open, and isn't one bit surprised to see Regina already there, sitting next to him on the bed, holding a bucket up for him, and rubbing his back almost absently. She looks up at Emma and offers a sleepy smile. "He can't quite make it to the bathroom yet," she says, softly.

Brow wrinkling and all of her frown lines showing, Emma asks, "Is he okay?"

"A bit feverish," Regina confirms, her elegant hand sweeping up to lightly settle against Henry's forehead. "But nothing to be concerned about."

"Nothing to be concerned about?" Emma contests, a blonde eyebrow lifting high enough to disappear into her hairline. "He sounds like he's trying to –"

"Emma," Regina cautions, her voice still gentle. She shakes her head, then, but it's the cool set of her eyes that gives Emma the message: shut up.

Emma sighs. "Right. What can I do?"

"Go get him something to drink. Preferably with bubbles."

"Okay. I can do that. What about crackers?"

"Not yet. Let's try seeing if he can keep liquids down first."

"Got it."

Regina smiles in response, and then turns her attention back to Henry.

"Mom," he mumbles, sagging against her.

"It's okay, sweetheart," Regina soothes, her voice wonderfully low and almost hoarse, a pitch she reserves almost uniquely for him, Emma's noticed. The sheriff watches as Regina slides her fingers through his hair and pushes damp brown strands away from his sweaty forehead. "Everything's okay." She drops a kiss down, and then pulls him against her.

"Mom," he says again, his voice a whisper. "I think I made a mess."

"It's okay," she assures him. "We can clean it up, no; no problem. But do you think we can make it to the bathroom now? Just to be careful?"

He nods his head, the motion weak and uncoordinated, like he can't control his little body. His arms are around his mother, and he's clutching her.

"One more minute," he pleads, his eyes watering as he swallows repeatedly.

"Whenever you're ready," Regina says, her hand still rubbing out circles.

Emma watches all of this unfold in front of her for just a moment longer, a thousand different feelings surging through her. There's worry and fear, of course but also a bit of disgust (she's never been especially good at dealing with the illness of others). And yeah, there's some jealousy, too, because dammit if Regina isn't just a bit of a natural at this. It's a strange mixture of emotions, and she hasn't a clue what to do with them.

All she knows for sure, though, is that she's never been so glad to have Regina around as she is right now. Because Regina gets this.

She knows what to do.

And all Emma can do is hope she gets the right thing to drink.

She turns away from the door, then, and quickly makes her way down the hallway, into the kitchen and over to the refrigerator. She yanks it open, and then with her hands shaking just a bit, pushes through bottles and cans until she finds the large plastic green one labeled Sprite.

She pulls it out, pours a glass, and then rushes back down the hallway, stopping next to the bathroom across from Henry's room. He and Regina are in there now. She's sitting next to him on the floor, her flannel clad legs crossed beneath her. She doesn't look like a Queen at the moment, but rather a worried mother. A frown wrinkles Emma's forehead as she watches Henry bend over the toilet once more, his tiny frame shaking as he retches.

"You're sure he's okay?" Emma asks.

"Of course he is," Regina says with an entirely too fake smile. She holds out her hand for the glass, taking it from Emma, and then pushing it towards Henry the moment he leans away from the toilet. "Drink this," she says.

Her tone is kind, but her words are direct enough to leave no room for argument, and he simply nods, and brings the glass to his mouth.

"We'll be just outside," Regina tells him, her voice so very soft.

"Mom –"

"Just outside," she says again. "Drink slowly."

He offers her a sickly smile, and takes another sip.

She stands up, reaches for Emma's arm, and then pushes her back into the hallway. They move a few feet away, just out of earshot and then Regina says, "I take it you haven't dealt with many sick children in your travels."

"That obvious, huh?"

"Well, generally the first rule is not to worry the child. He feeds off of us, Emma. If we tell him that he's going to be all right, he'll believe us, but if we're visibly worried, well he's going to be just as worried. Children have terribly active imaginations to begin with, and Henry –"

"Has the most active imagination of all. Right. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Regina says kindly, a small almost fond smile lighting up her face. "My first time dealing with him being sick was well…interesting."

"Interesting? Why doesn't that sound like a good thing?"

"Because it wasn't a good thing," Regina replies. "But that is a conversation for later. For now, let's try to get him back into bed."

"Okay." They start back down the hallway, and then Emma reaches for Regina again, her fingers closing around the warm skin of Regina's upper arm. "But he is all right, right? This is just some kind of stomach thing, right?"

Regina smiles again, and her eyes even light up. Emma's not sure if it's because this is something that the former queen actually understands well enough to be good at or because she genuinely feels for Emma's concern, but whatever it is, the expression is quite lovely on the older woman. "Yes," she assures the sheriff. "Hopefully it's just something he ate that didn't sit well with him and not the flu, but we'll cross that bridge when we get to it."

"Fun."

"He didn't throw up on you did he?"

"No. Why?"

"Because that, my dear, is when it's really fun," Regina chuckles, the sound darkly humorous in a way that is uniquely the former queen. She wiggles her eyebrows, and then steps away from Emma, sliding back into the bathroom.

Emma blows out a breath of air, the sound both frustrated and unsettled.

Turns out that while she has a pretty damned good idea how to kidnap and talk down a homicidal former Evil Queen who is two seconds from a vengeful rampage, and she has more than passing knowledge of how to teach said woman how to work out some of her anger issues through boxing, she hasn't a clue on how to comfort and care for a sick child.

Well, she thinks as she steps into the bathroom, perhaps it's time to learn.

* * *

For the first time since Emma has known him, Henry is actually sick to the degree that he's running a low-grade fever.

Were it up to Emma, they'd be in the Emergency Room right about now, but Regina, who somehow managed to locate a thermometer, has been equally adamant that while he is warm, he's not dangerously so.

Instead, they take turns through the night either sitting with him in the bathroom while he dry heaves – having long emptied his stomach - or staying by him while he fitfully slumbers in his bed. He wakes up several times, his body trembling, and by morning, and each of his mothers spends a few minutes doing little else but trying to soothe him. It seems to come so naturally to Regina, Emma observes with more than a little bit of jealousy, and Henry appears to gravitate towards the former queen like she's something of a life line – the only one who can make him feel better.

And perhaps, she is.

It's weird, Emma thinks as she lies next to her son in his bed (she's been with him for the last couple of hours – since his last journey to the bathroom), to think that right now she's the one jealous and uncomfortable with the things that she can't give to her son when he needs it most.

She wonders what that makes her. After all, who gets jealous over their kid finding comfort wherever he can manage it? It's absurd and selfish, and a whole lot of other ugly things that make her shift around anxiously.

She hears the door to the room open, and lifting her head up from the pillow, she watches as Regina pads into the room, her socks blunting the sound of her movements. "Hey," Emma greets, her voice rough. She feels the light dip of the bed as Regina crosses over and sits upon the edge of it.

"Good morning. I'm guessing that you didn't sleep all that much?"

"A little bit here and there," Emma says, and it's only slightly a lie. "You?"

"Well enough," Regina answers with a sharp nod meant to end the conversation. The dark shadows beneath her eyes betray her, however.

And maybe if Emma wasn't so damned tired, maybe she'd call Regina out on this, but instead she just sighs, "Right. Good."

"Indeed. Which means that I'm aware enough that I think we can probably swap off now," Regina offers as she reaches out and places her hand on Henry's forehead. After a moment of frowning contemplation, she then, in a move that is completely effortless and smooth, moves the hand over to Emma's forehead, lying cool knuckles against the blonde sheriff's warm skin.

"What are you doing?" Emma asks, eyes shooting upwards to observe Regina's passive face. Her tone is half surprise and half amusement

"I'm making sure that you're not coming down with something," Regina responds with a throaty chuckle that suggests her own amusement. "The last thing I really want to be doing is taking care of two sick children." She's teasing when she says this, but Emma squirms just the same because honestly, she's never really had anyone take care of her when she's ill.

Even when she'd been with Neal, his way of dealing with coming down with the flu had been to throw a blanket at her and ask if she wanted him to pick her up some chicken soup, all the while shifting his feet around anxiously.

Like he hadn't had a clue how he was supposed to act in such a situation.

"And…am I?"

"No, dear, you feel fine. It probably is just a little bug," Regina says, the relief obvious. "And he seems to be sleeping better now. I think we can just let him rest and see how that goes. He'll probably be in bed all day." Her hand returns to his forehead, and settles there, as if she'd been overtaken by a sudden need to touch her son, and confirm her own words.

"Right. Bed." She yawns then, failing to get her hand over her mouth first.

"Which you should feel free to return to," Regina says gently.

"Is this mom mode?" Emma asks as Regina removes her hand from her forehead, and for anyone else, that might sound like some kind of mockery, but Emma finds that she's honestly curious because in her mind, she'd created a picture of Regina as a distant and cold parent who'd been unable to connect with her son on any level, which had therefore necessitated his decision to try to find his birth mother, but if this is how she's always been, well the lonely always hungry for affection orphan in Emma finds herself wondering what else Henry could have ever wanted or needed.

That's not quite fair, of course – relationships between parents and their children are always about more than just the fulfilling of basic requirements.

Regina smiles almost sadly. "I've learned a few things along the way."

It seems like such a loaded answer, and Emma wonders if maybe she should let the line of conversation go, but she never has been good at that.

"When we first met, you said you'd soothed every fever –"

"And I taught him how to walk and talk and pee straight, too," Regina replies, "But that doesn't mean I gave him what he needed. Clearly or otherwise I don't believe we'd know each other at all." Her hand lifts up and sweeps the hair away from his forehead, a motion that Emma has come to associate with Regina feeling emotionally exposed and uncomfortable.

Very simply put, when everything goes bad for Regina, she clings to her son for grounding, even when he's not completely willing to offer it.

Perhaps if they weren't both sitting next to what appears to be a heavily slumbering Henry, maybe Emma would continue pulling on this string. She very much wants to know why Regina looks so upset all the sudden, but the exhaustion she feels right now is deep, and honestly Regina looks equally tired so she just nods her head, and lets it go. For now. "Okay."

"Excellent. Then, I'll see you in a few hours," Regina says, looking up at the clock on the opposite wall of the bedroom. "It's only five now. I see no reason we can't have our nine am breakfast as usual."

"Sounds good," Emma replies, standing up from the bed. She glances back at Henry, does a visual check of his chest – what an absurd thing to do, she thinks to herself even as she does it - to ensure that it's still rising and falling, and then turns and exits the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

Once she's gone, Regina glances around the room like for a moment she doesn't quite know what to do with herself, and then, gathering her wits about her, she gently extends herself beside Henry on the bed, now residing in the same position that Emma had been in just minutes earlier.

She closes her eyes and starts humming to herself.

It's an old song, one that she just barely remembers, and she has no idea where she learned it from (strange, she thinks, that she's just now realizing this), but she's been humming it to Henry since the day that he'd been given to her, back then only a little bundle wrapped up tight in a warm blanket.

She has no idea if he likes it, if it soothes him or relaxes him. She hopes it does, though, because it calms her, and in ways that she can't even begin to explain, it makes her feel closer to him. Because even though it's just a song, humming it to him makes her feel like she's doing right by him.

If only for a few short moments when he needs her the most.

So she keeps humming, all the while wondering where she'd learned the song and why she suddenly cares about the origins of it.

And more importantly, she wonders why she suddenly feels an odd sense of dread and perhaps even fear about finding out the answer to that question.

* * *

The first thing Emma hears as she enters the kitchen, still dressed in her pajama bottoms, and rubbing sleep from her eyes, is the sound of Regina humming to herself. It's low and hard to make out, but definitely there.

It's a lovely if slightly unsettling sound, and Regina's deep and throaty voice just makes it that much more engaging and daresay enticing, even absent the words that usually accompany most songs.

Seconds later, though, she forgets all about the oddly haunting song when her stomach growls. She steps into the kitchen further, taking in the fact that Regina had apparently assigned breakfast duty to herself this morning.

"Those aren't omelets," Emma notes as it occurs to her that Regina is preparing a full on meal for the two of them. The smell of bacon is ripe in the air – though they both know that Regina won't eat even a piece of it – but it's the scent of the roasted potatoes that catches Emma's nose.

They smell heavenly. Actually, the whole damned breakfast does.

"No," Regina shrugs, the humming stopping immediately, almost as if she hadn't realized that she was doing it. "I thought perhaps we could both use something a bit more substantial after last night." She motions towards the table, and with a smile that seems oddly open and easy especially for her, she says, "Go ahead and sit down; breakfast will be ready in a moment."

Emma lifts an eyebrow. Over the last month, she's seen several different and completely contradictory sides of this extremely mercurial woman, but this one is absolutely new to her. This is more than just about being domestic; what she's seeing right now sure looks a whole lot like happy.

Which, though absolutely nice to see, is all kinds of strange.

"Is there a…problem, Sheriff?" Regina queries as the smile abruptly falls away. There's an odd hitch to her voice when she speaks, and Emma sees the way that Regina swallows, and the slight flush on her cheeks, which indicates that she's embarrassed, and perhaps feeling like a bit of a fool. It's only because Emma's been here before that she recognizes the signs as easily as she does, but even in doing so, she finds herself surprised by just how fast Regina has appeared to shift both her mood and her personalities.

"None at all. Smells great," Emma answers with what she hopes is a reassuring smile. She makes her way to the dining room table, and drops down into one of the chairs. As if on instinct, her eyes track over to the one that Henry typically occupies, and she finds herself just staring at it with a frown, feeling more than a little bit unsettled. She has to remind herself that he's fine; he's just resting in his bedroom, sleeping off his stomach bug.

There's absolutely no reason why she and Regina can't enjoy breakfast with each other even without him around, she reminds herself. After all, it's not like they hadn't shared a bottle of whiskey and a blanket the night before.

"It is a bit strange, isn't it?" Regina murmurs, coming over with two cups of coffee. Emma can smell the vanilla rising with the steam. She gratefully accepts one of the cups, gulping down a whole mouthful of the hot liquid before it's even had a chance to cool. She ignores the look of mild disgust that she's getting from Regina, who prefers her own coffee much cooler.

"Yeah, I was just thinking that," Emma replies once she puts the cup down on the table. She doesn't actually need Regina to elaborate on the thoughts going through her mind at the moment. But then, frowning again as a different entirely unwelcome thought streaks through her mind, she asks, "Is this what it was like after he came to live with me and my parents? Quiet?"

Regina brings the mug to her lips, and takes a long sip. It's clear that she's considering her answer, and even this feels like progress to Emma. There was a time not too long ago when Regina would have simply snapped back and tried to make her anger and pain clear to everyone around her. That she doesn't feel the need to do so now does indeed suggest that their time on the beach together had brought them to a place of understanding.

"Yes," Regina says after a few moments. She licks her lips, and for a moment looks like she might offer up more, but then she simply plasters on a smile that reminds Emma of Mayor Mills, and says, "I think the potatoes are ready; I'll go get them. Would you like some orange juice as well?"

"No, the coffee is fine; thanks," Emma replies. She wonders if this is a subject that she should push on, but decides against it because even though there is still so very much to talk about and work through, they both have the right to a nice and easy breakfast without the hurt feelings that are sure to come up if they spend too much time talking about custody of Henry.

"So what was that song you were humming when I came in?" Emma asks as Regina comes back over with two plates heaped high with breakfast foods. She doesn't fail to notice the lack of bacon on Regina's plate, the spot there occupied instead by perfectly sliced up pieces of cantaloupe and honeydew.

Apparently, even when Henry isn't dining with them, Regina doesn't allow herself such. Which is strange because she recalls seeing the former mayor eat bacon a time or two in Granny's so she knows it's not a lack of interest in this particular breakfast food. No, she's certain that it has something to do with Henry, and that weird need to spoil him after the fact even with something so small and to most people's minds, insignificant.

Though, a person could successfully argue that there are few truly insignificant details when one is trying to make amends with their child.

"Hm?" Regina responds as she sits. As is her typical way (Emma's seen her do something like this a hundred times over the past year – and finds herself a bit surprised that she's noticed), Regina unfolds the napkin that just minutes earlier she'd folded up beside the plate, and settles it into her lap. It's all very orderly and dignified - the sign of her breeding and training.

"You were humming something to yourself. It was…nice."

Regina glances up at her, and the strangest set of expressions – anger, surprise, worry, hurt and something that looks a lot like fear - flitter across face for a moment before they all drop away and there's just practiced neutrality there once more. She shrugs her shoulders. "Hadn't noticed."

"Oh," Emma says, eyes wrinkling a bit as she takes in Regina's suddenly much harder tone, and the tight draw of her face. "Well, this is delicious."

"I'm glad you like it," Regina replies, and then falls silent.

They eat for several minutes like this; in complete silence save the sound of silverware occasionally scrapping against the plates. Finally, because the one thing that Emma has always hated is the absence of sound (it's always made her feel anxious and uneasy), she says, "Okay, why is this so awkward?"

"Awkward? I don't –"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about, Regina. Every night, we chat for hours out on the porch over wine. Last night, it was whiskey. Are you telling me that we can only really talk to each other when we're drinking? Because I'm not sure that that will work out long-term to Henry's advantage." She says this last line with a light smile meant to indicate that she's just teasing.

Regina chuckles in reaction, a smirk playing over her lips. "Well, the alcohol does help me to follow your odd conversational leaps, that's for sure."

"Yeah, okay, I'm sure that's true, but –"

"I always knew I'd lose him eventually," Regina says suddenly, abruptly steering the conversation down a path that Emma hadn't been expecting.

"What?"

"Henry. I think I knew from the moment that he was placed into my arms that I would eventually have to let him go, and then I'd lose him forever." She glances across the room – her eyes fixed on a spot on the far wall, and Emma sees the expression that flitters across Regina's face. It looks a whole lot like disgust and self-loathing mixed with an unhealthy serving of sadness.

"But you didn't," Emma insists. "He's here now. It was his idea to bring you here because he loves you so much that he doesn't want to lose _you_."

Regina ignores her, and keeps talking, her fingers coming together to nervously fidget in a way that seems quite unlike the Regina that Emma had gotten used to back in Storybrooke. There's something both oddly anxious and terribly unrefined in the way that she moves – not befitting a Queen, Emma thinks. "I figured I'd lose him to college, though, not to his birth mother," Regina says with a humorless chuckle. "I tried not to think about it because I thought I could come up with a way to keep him close, but it was always in the back of my head that eventually he'd move away, and then I'd never see him again. I'd lose him to a wife and family and then –"

She wipes her napkin past her lips, clearing away crumbs that aren't there. Her tongue comes out again to nervously lick at them before she continues.

"When he went to live with you, all I noticed was how quiet it was every minute of every day. The things that used to drive me insane about him – the way he left his shoes around, the way he'd never just walk up the stairs and how his idea of doing laundry was to undress in the service porch and leave all of his clothing in a heap next to the washer machine – I found myself missing. I even found myself missing when he wouldn't talk to me over dinner because at least he was still there." She shakes her head as if to fight off the emotion that seems to be rapidly overtaking her. "But he wasn't, was he? He didn't want to be there with me, and he hated me for making him stay with me when all he wanted was to be with you."

The words gush out of her mouth like a fountain, and even she seems more than a little surprised to have said them. Such honesty and vulnerability is hard for her, this is not a secret, but this is beyond that. This is the exposing of a bloody and infected wound that has thus far refused to scab over.

"I never meant for that," Emma says, and wonders how often she's said some variation of these words to Regina in the last several days. It occurs to her with something of a sick feeling in her stomach that since coming to Storybrooke, she's scored more than a few body blows against Regina as well. They'd been proud victories back during the days of the Mayor versus the Sheriff, but now she finds herself pondering how deep the wounds are.

"Yes, you did," Regina counters, and her mouth quirks into the kind of smile that a person uses to hide darker and more painful emotions. "After the curse broke, there was a time when you were just fine with knowing that Henry wasn't with me; at least be honest about that, Emma."

"Fine," Emma agrees, shifting around anxiously in her chair. "But it wasn't all about being vindictive. I honestly thought I was doing right by him, and I honestly though that considering what we'd just found out –"

"You thought that it made no sense to leave your son with the Evil Queen."

"Yeah," Emma admits, and has the good sense to look a bit ashamed. Not because she'd been wrong – Regina _had_ been the Evil Queen – but because hearing the words said aloud makes the absurdity of things so much more real and honest. She'd taken Henry away like he'd be a spoil of war, and she'd never once considered the ramifications of what she'd done.

"You were right," Regina says, smiling that awful forced smile again.

"Regina –"

"Would you like more potatoes?"

"Uh, yes?"

Regina nods her head, and stands back up, picking up the plate and heading back into the kitchen. She scoops the rest of the potatoes up, and returns with them, sliding them in front of Emma, who has noticed that Regina really hasn't eaten much more than the fruit that was on her plate.

She waits for Regina to sit down, waits for Regina to refold her napkin back into her lap, and then she takes a deep breath and starts to explain herself.

"Having Henry live with me seemed like such a good idea at the time, and yeah, I was pissed as all hell at you and I wanted to take him away from you, but I also wanted to protect him from something I didn't – and still don't – completely understand" Emma says, because she knows that this something that she needs to get out. "And I guess I was an idiot; I thought it would be so easy because he's a good kid, you know? But the first thing I figured out is the same thing I figured out a couple hours ago – I'm making it up as I go along. I don't know how to do this like you do, Regina. I don't know how his shoe size or his favorite comic book character or how he likes to cut his hair, and I sure as hell don't know how to soothe his fevers."

"I know how to feed him crackers and ginger ale," Regina says, her mood suddenly quite morose. Gone is the woman who'd been present when Emma had entered the kitchen. Now, Regina seems sad and contemplative.

There's a severe danger, Emma knows, to becoming too self-aware too fast. Especially when the things you're coming to terms with involve blood and pain and deeds beyond the comprehension of most sane people. Regina has done things that are hideous, and Emma knows – she just knows – that the person that Snow had once described to her – the one that had taught a child the true meaning of love – is someone that would be somewhere beyond horrified by the actions of her older and far more broken self.

Considering all of this and the ugly reality that is starting to slap Regina like cold water to the face, frankly, Emma's more than a little surprised Regina isn't curled up in the fetal position in her bed with her blankets up tight around her ears, shaking beneath the weight of her nightmares and regrets.

She thinks that it's a sign of the stubborn fighter inside of Regina – the one that never quits even when continuing to fight on is sure to only lead to more hurt – that she's sitting here now, willing exposing her pain and the inevitable heartbreak and sadness that it always brings with it.

"That's more than I know, and that means something because you're the one who he wanted with him last night" Emma counters. "I'm the one who probably would have tried to give him whiskey instead of Sprite."

"I don't think you're quite that bad, dear," Regina chuckles. Then she wrinkles her nose. "You…wouldn't actually try to do that. Right?"

"No, probably not," Emma laughs. "And I most likely would have eventually figured my way out to the Sprite myself, but in the meanwhile he would have thrown up all over his room and –" She shudders a bit at the thought of this. "That wouldn't have been pretty for anyone."

"No," Regina agrees. "But the point is, you would have figured it out."

"No, the point is, no matter what has happened in the past, all that matters now is that he needs us both so don't start pulling away from him now."

"I wouldn't worry too much about that. I've never been especially good at letting anything go," Regina answers softly, and the defeated sadness in her tone is just about too much for Emma to handle. She tries to think back to the conversation on the beach, and tries to remember if she'd seen this painful surrender during showing as brightly, then.

No, her mind insists. There had been sadness, but not like this.

And what of the almost happy woman that she'd walked into the kitchen on? Where had that person disappeared to? What the hell is going on?

And then she thinks about the dreams. The ones Regina now remembers.

The ones she probably can no longer forget even when her eyes are open.

The ones that are probably acting like Pandora's Fucking Box.

Jesus. If she could facepalm herself and get away with it, she would.

Okay, she thinks, time to change the subject and get this tracked back to a better place. Somewhere where the conversation doesn't feel like a suicide prevention hotline. She knows that these issues – the guilt, remorse and bone deep sadness that have suddenly hit the former queen with full force - will have to be dealt with at some time or another, but not while they're so fresh and bloody. Not while Regina is so tired and emotionally vulnerable.

Emma clears her throat. "So, the first time."

"First time?"

"That he was sick. You said it was an adventure."

Regina's eyebrow lifts up. "No, I believe that I said that it was interesting."

"Yeah, well, tell me about interesting, then."

"Over breakfast?" Regina asks, clearly surprised. She knows what Emma is doing, and perhaps in the spirit of the new forced upon her self-awareness, she should insist on continuing upon the path of answering for her many mistakes, but she finds herself almost absurdly thankful for the chance to step away from her grievously dark and painful past if only for a moment.

"I have a strong stomach," Emma assures her.

"For as much as you drink, I should certainly hope so."

"Pretty sure you're the one who actually drank most of the whiskey last night," Emma counters with a challenging wiggle of her eyebrow.

"You're remembering incorrectly," Regina lobs back. Then, "But all right, just don't say I didn't warn you about this. It'd be a shame to find you wasting the efforts of my meal preparation in the bathroom afterwards."

"No chance of that," Emma replies, and then punctuates it with an impish grin. It's such an easy and honest one, and in spite of herself, Regina finds herself answering it with one of her own.

"Well, that's good at least," Regina chuckles. She takes a sip from her coffee mug, and then she says, "He was just a couple of months over two years old the first time he got actually sick. Not just runny nose and cough kind of sick, but the extremely messy type, and let's just say, I was unprepared."

"Unprepared for?"

"The mess, dear," Regina laughs, her eyes twinkling in a way that makes Emma want to speak of nothing besides stories about Henry's many youthful misadventures. Such tales seem to bring out the lighter side of her. The part of her that still remembers how to be happy.

The part, Emma thinks as she leans in to listen to a very animated Regina tell the story of how two-year-old Henry had managed to ruin three different designer outfits in one day, that they need to a find a way to get back to even if it takes a year.

* * *

At just after one in the afternoon, Regina finally exits from her bedroom where she's been hidden away presumably resting (Emma had seen the telltale indications of an upcoming headache) since the dishes had been done after breakfast had concluded. While the meal had ended on a positive and upbeat note, Emma had the nonetheless felt a bit unsettled by the unfinished nature of the conversations that they'd begun during the meal.

Still, as she watches Regina enter the kitchen, she does little more than offer up a soft smile as she lowers the Stephen King paperback that she's been reading for the last two hours. She'd found it in the bookcase, between the true crime novels and the historical reads on the rise and fall of the Nazis.

Weird, but what isn't these days?

"I've always found him to be a bit macabre," Regina comments as her eyes slide over the cover, which shows the embossed picture of balloons of different colors rising up towards a thunderously dark sky.

"Yeah, just a bit," Emma agrees. "And I'm not much a fan of clowns."

"Is anyone?" Regina chuckles as she crosses over to the cupboard, and pulls it open so that she can inspect what's inside. "I'll give him credit, though; for a horror writer, he has a reasonably solid understanding of the concepts of black, white and gray. There were no authors like him in my world."

"None?"

Regina shakes her head. "That book of Henry's? It's not an anomaly."

"Good always wins?" Emma queries as she closes the book and sets it aside.

"And Evil always loses," Regina says, her voice soft and muffled. Emma wonders for a moment if she's hiding her face and eyes on purpose.

"Right. Well, every day I'm a little more glad that we're not in that world."

"Me, too," Regina agrees as she moves a few cans around.

"Did you check on Henry?"Emma queries as she watches Regina root through the cupboard. She'd looked in on him herself about thirty minutes ago, and he'd been sleeping quite soundly, curled up beneath a warm and comfortable mountain of blankets, a glass of recently refreshed Sprite nearby.

"I did. He's awake and hungry."

"You think it's a good idea for him to eat anything?"

Regina turns towards her, a small smile tugging at her lips. "Afraid of my story from earlier coming to life are you, dear?"

"Yes, I am. Very afraid, actually. Your story was…disgusting."

"You asked to hear it," the former queen reminds her with a half-laugh.

"I did. And I'm glad I did, but it was still disgusting."

"Indeed. So you'll be delighted to know, then, that I agree with you that it might be a bit early for actual food. I'd prefer to keep him on crackers for a little longer just to ensure that his stomach has completely settled down."

Emma nods her head in agreement, unable to hide her relief.

And then Regina starts speaking again. "That and –" she reaches into the cupboard and pulls out a can of Campbell's soup and holds it up for Emma to see. " – there's not a chance in hell that I'm feeding my son this."

Emma frowns. "I think it's the only soup we have."

"Then I suppose you'll need to go into this lovely town and find him something better for tonight," Regina shoots back, the tone undeniably scolding, and absolutely firm. And as if that isn't enough, she settles her hands on her hips, and stares right at Emma in order to make her point quite clear. "I assume it has something comparable to Granny's, yes?"

"Sure," Emma answers, because she's not about to feel awful about buying the kind of cheap soup that she'd lived on for a good long while. Maybe it's beneath a Queen, but it'd done just fine by her for almost ten years.

Of course, she and Henry aren't the same person at all. He deserves better than the kind of food that a pair of aimless wandering thieves would live on between scores. And just like that, Emma deflates with a sigh.

"Fantastic," Regina says, looking like she's just won something far more important than a discussion about what best to feed their son. "Now, for us; will grilled cheese do or…would you prefer something else?"

"No, grilled cheese sounds great," Emma answers, frowning just a little bit as she does so. In the time it'd taken to blink her eyes twice, the firm steady confidence and certainty that had been there disappears and just like that, Regina seems oddly hesitant and completely uncomfortable.

It reminds Emma of this morning in a way that makes her stomach turn. Thankfully, Emma's answer seems to have calmed her a bit, and her face has returned to a more controlled and neutral expression.

Still, the breaks and dents in Regina's once impenetrable armor are showing more and more, and Emma can't help but feel the guilt of having caused them. She firmly believes that pushing on the dreams had been the right thing to do; you can't heal until you face what you've done, but that doesn't mean that she wants to see this woman hurting as she quite plainly is.

"Go ahead and take the crackers into Henry," Regina says suddenly, pulling her from her quickly darkening thoughts. "I'll get the sandwiches started and then maybe since it's not raining for once, we can eat out the deck."

"Yeah, that sounds nice," Emma replies, reaching for the crackers.

Regina nods her head in agreement, and then turns away, making her way over to the refrigerator to collect the cheese. As she does so, she starts humming to herself again – that same beautifully haunting song.

Emma listens for a few seconds, and then realizing that she's been doing it for too long, exits the kitchen and heads down the hall towards Henry.

He's propped up against several oversized pillows, sitting up in bed and reading a Batman comic when she enters the room. He looks pale and a bit unsteady, but even so, he appears to be quite a bit better than he'd been earlier that morning. "Hey, Kid," she greets. "I brought lunch."

He lifts his eyebrow. "Crackers."

"Just for a few more hours."

"She's too cautious," he grumbles. "I feel fine." He drops the comic down, and turns his full attention to his blonde mother as she approaches the bed.

"Yeah, well, we'd both prefer you stay that way," Emma says as she sits down next to him. She reaches out with her hand, stopping for a brief second before moving forward again and sweeping it through his hair.

He grins at her.

"What?"

"Mom does that," he tells her.

"Yeah, I thought maybe you'd, you know…" she starts before trailing off and looking down at her hands. And then because she doesn't know what else to say without making an even more ridiculous fool of herself, she pulls her hand back, and then thrusts out the one with the crackers in it. "Here."

"Thanks," he says, giving her a look before popping one into his mouth.

"Do you want me to stay for awhile?" she asks after a few moments have passed in silence. It's weird how uncomfortable this feels after all that they have shared together. They broke a curse through True Love, and yet right now she couldn't feel more out of sorts about taking care of him if she tried.

Some mother, she thinks to herself, all while offering a smile.

"No," he replies with a shake of his head. "I think I just want to sleep."

"Good idea," she agrees as she pulls up the blankets so that they're just about around his neck. "If you need either of us, we're just outside."

"Okay," he mumbles, then drops his head back against the pillow like he's suddenly lost all of his strength. It's a decidedly melodramatic action, and she's again reminded by just how much of Regina's child he really is.

She supposes that when you're the son of a Queen notorious for making big entrances and even bigger exits, you learn how to put on a show or two.

"Henry," she says as she gets to the door, and turns back to face him.

"Yeah?" he leans upwards, but just his head, the rest of him still flat.

She considers apologizing to him for not being able to offer him more comfort and for not having a clue how to make him feel better right about now. These seem like things any mother should just understand how to do.

She doesn't, though.

She knows how to pull up his blankets around him, and she knows how to make a bowl of thin watery chicken noodle soup out of a tin can.

And maybe in a few years, maybe then she can teach him how to not feel the effects of a hangover even after drinking all night long.

No, she thinks with a wince and a mental image of Regina, probably not.

Either way, what she can give him is clearly not enough, and though it's just a stomach bug, and nothing more serious than that, she's never felt less like a mother than she does right now – as he's staring at her expectantly.

Waiting.

She forces a smile.

"Sleep well," she tells him, feeling about as pathetic as a person can feel.

He nods and closes his eyes.

She blows out air and sighs.

And decides that come hell or high water, she'll find him good soup tonight.

* * *

Lunch is fantastic as usual, if a bit quiet and melancholy. They stare out at the ocean, watching the sun blink off of the waves. They sit in easy companionable silence, neither one of them saying more than pleasantries.

Emma thinks that she's about to explode.

"Chess," she says suddenly, sitting forward in her chair.

Regina's eyebrow shoots upwards. "Excuse me?"

"Chess. The game. You play it, right?"

"I do," the former queen says in a voice that seems almost hesitant.

"Great. Play me?"

"Really? You know how to play?"

"Is that so hard to believe?" Emma counters.

"You strike me as more of a checkers kind of woman," Regina admits.

Emma shrugs her shoulders. "Play me," she requests again, adding on a challenging grin. "I saw a board inside. Looked like a nice one, too."

"Fine, but don't whine when I destroy you."

"Back at you, Your Majesty," Emma counters.

"Dear," Regina says haughtily. "I was taught by the best of the best."

"And I was taught by a bunch of hormonal kids playing for cigarettes," Emma informs her. "I'm guessing my games were a bit more…passionate."

"Classy."

"Yup. So how about it?"

"I already said I'd play."

"No, I mean how about we play for stakes?"

She doesn't miss the way Regina's spine straightens, and her hand clenches around the glass of lemonade that she's holding. "What kind of stakes?"

"If I win, you have to tell me about the song that you've been humming."

"And if I win?" Regina asks, suddenly seeming quite anxious.

"I'll tell you whatever you want to know."

Regina thinks for a moment, clearly considering her odds, and then she nods her head sharply. "Fine, but I won't be gentle when I win."

"I wouldn't expect you to be," Emma answers with a smile that is almost flirtatious in a way that she is clearly unaware of. "In there or out here?"

"Out here," Regina responds, her eyes drifting towards the water.

"All right; hang on, I'll grab the board. And some beer."

"Yes," Regina agrees. "You're going to need it."

Emma just smirks in response.

* * *

Turns out that Emma Swan has a reason to smirk; apparently, contrary to all common sense, the blonde is bit of a shark when it comes to chess.

Or maybe Emma thinks as she says the word "checkmate" for the second time in three hours, maybe Regina just doesn't know what to make of her.

The former queen is good for sure. Actually, she's damned good.

Technically, anyway.

But she hasn't a clue in the world how to play against someone who doesn't act the way most people do. She doesn't know what to do with a person who makes moves that seem utterly ridiculous and completely counterintuitive. It's the very story of their history together, and every time Regina snorts in derision at a move she makes, Emma just smiles.

All the way up until she reaches out and wraps her hands around the black queen, and she says with a wolfish grin, "Triple or nothing, Your Majesty?"

Regina just about growls at her.

Emma holds up her hands. "Come on; just one more game. If you win, no questions for me tonight, I promise. But if I win, no more stalling."

"Set the board," Regina demands, teeth grit in frustration. She's staring at the board like it's an enemy to her, a disloyal subject that won't submit.

Emma does as instructed, her hands reaching out to place the black and white pieces back onto the board. The set is gorgeous, made of cut marble, and it's a pure joy to move each of them forward over the glass board.

Some of the best things in life really are the best.

And then they begin again. At first, it's wildly competitive, but as soon as Emma starts looking like she's got the advantage, she sees Regina's focus begin to slip. She suddenly looks pensive and ill at ease, unable to think even one move ahead. She becomes sloppy and almost desperate.

Like she's playing scared.

Like she's terrified of what losing will mean. Her finger twitch repeatedly, analyzing and over-analyzing each move to the point of paralyzation.

When it's all over and Emma has claimed her third unexpected win, she simply smiles, doing everything she can to not to rub it in even a little bit.

Apparently, her efforts do not go unnoticed.

"Go ahead," Regina sighs.

"What's that?"

"Go ahead and gloat, dear, but be quick about it, because I am a very poor loser, and even absent my magic, I can still be quite vindictive when I want to be." There's a kind of angry petulance to her tone, a hint of something darker and more corrosive, something that seems both familiar and alien.

"No, that's okay," Emma assures her with a wave of her hand. "I mean it's not your fault that the boys from the home know how to play chess better than your stuffy best of the best teachers. Cigarettes are serious business."

"Yes, well, keep your serious business away from Henry," Regina retorts, her anger sliding into a more basic kind of petulance that is oddly humanizing.

Emma supposes that that could be a crack about her parenting issues, and in light of her all insecurities about being good enough for him that have her today, it's almost enough to throw her off, but one look at the former queen as she almost stomps her feet is enough to chill Emma out.

She clears her throat. "I'll set the board up again. No stakes on this one, just something to do with your hands while you talk."

"Talk?"

"No stakes for this game," Emma says, "But you still owe me three stories."

"Fine, but I don't need something for my hands; I'm perfectly capable of staying still for longer than five seconds at a time."

"Well, I'm not," Emma replies with a grin. She resets the board and nods to Regina to make the first move. It's a typical one, safe and cautious.

Like she's taking her time to figure out what to do or say next.

Finally, with extreme reluctance, she grits out, "I don't remember the song."

"You've been humming it all day."

"I know. When Henry was young, I'd hum it to him when he couldn't sleep."

"But you don't remember where you learned it from?"

There's a brief pause, and then softly, "No."

"Is it from your own childhood?" Emma presses.

And there it is; she sees the look flash across Regina's face – the same one that she'd seen earlier that morning in the kitchen. It's so many emotions but the most prevalent one of all is clearly fear. And maybe panic.

"No," she says almost immediately, the tremor of her voice surrendering the lie. "It's from this world. I must have learned it from the radio."

"Okay," Emma says as gently as she can without being obvious about it in a way that will insult Regina. "Fair enough." She knows Regina's words for the lie that they are, but that warning bell that has always guided her away – and sometimes towards - danger is banging around in her head like a goddamned klaxon and she knows that if she pushes on this too hard too soon, she'll end up with an ugly repeat of the unwanted dreams situation.

And neither one of them is ready for that just yet.

Besides, Emma thinks as she moves one of her rooks forward a few squares, there's no more whiskey in the house.

"Your turn," Regina states.

"I just took it."

"For the story, dear; keep up."

"That wasn't the deal," Emma reminds her. "I won."

"True, but I've been doing all the talking lately, and I'm tired."

Emma lifts her eyes up and studies Regina for a moment, and indeed, there are deep bags beneath her eyes and her jaw is tight and tense.

"The dreams are getting worse, aren't they?" she asks.

"No, I don't actually think that they are," Regina counters. "I think that maybe they've always been like this. I just…"

"Didn't remember them."

Regina nods, suddenly looking so damned helpless. She runs a hand over the smooth perfectly cut marble of the black queen a moment before quickly yanking it back almost like she's been violently burned.

"You've been all over the place today," Emma states, eyebrow lifted.

In a motion that's nothing short of terrifyingly submissive, Regina ducks her head for a moment, her eyes on the board even though it might as well not even be there for all she sees of it. "I feel," she starts after a moment, her voice barely more than a hoarse whisper. "Like I can't ground myself."

"Maybe that's how you're supposed to feel," Emma replies, and it feels like a cold and awful thing to say, but it also feels honest, and after how far they've come, now doesn't seem like the time to be step backwards.

"Maybe," Regina admits, her hand coming up to cover her eyes. Emma seems her thumb sweep out as if to brush tears away. "It's all there," the former queen continues, then. "Everything I worked so hard to never think about again. The things I've done, the faces I blocked out. The names." She looks up sharply at Emma. "I've always been so good at names."

"Believe it or not, " Emma tells her, "This is actually good."

"Is it? The things I've done –"

"Can't be undone with your guilt. You need to remember them because they should be remembered, but you can't let them bury you."

"How can I not?" Regina insists. She holds up her hands, palms out, and for just a moment, Emma thinks that she's about to get blasted with magic.

But no, this is more like surrender.

"You're a fighter," Emma insists. "It's what you do."

"Why? Why should I keep fighting?"

"Because giving in now doesn't make up for what you've done anymore than me breaking your curse makes up for the horrible things that I've done. We have to live with our mistakes. We have to –"

"We? What have you done that even begins to compare to what I have?"

"I've never killed anyone if that's what you're asking, but there was a time when I did some pretty terrible things to people in the name of making myself feel better. It was after prison and after the asshole who owns this house, and I swindled a couple good people because they were too good."

She swallows hard, then, because it's the first time that she's ever spoken of these things. She feels shame wash through her, hot and sticky.

"There was this sweet couple in Tallahassee," she continues on. "They wanted a child so badly and I was so pissed at everyone, but especially them for trying to have what I'd had to give up because of Neal. I was twenty-one and in reasonably good health, and they were young and so damned trusting. They paid me to surrogate for them and I…I took their money the moment they gave it to me and I ran like hell." She rubs her hands past her face, her fingers rubbing harshly at her eyebrows. "Some things you can't make better. You don't get the right to forgive yourself, either. You have to wear those scars, and maybe you have to bleed sometimes, too."

She nods her head, like she's trying to convince herself.

Then she looks up at Regina and sees complete empathy in her eyes.

And perhaps even a desperate kind of recognition.

"We're not the same," Emma says softly. "But we're not that different, either. We both have things that we will never be able to amend for no matter how much we try. Doesn't mean we get the right to wallow in our pain and guilt. Doesn't mean we shouldn't try to be better."

"I don't know how," Regina admits. "I just want to –" she trails off, shaking her head like even saying the words makes her that much weaker.

"Curl up in bed and never come out?" Emma finishes.

Regina simply nods.

"Yeah, trust me when I say that doesn't make it better. What I did to that couple wasn't the end of the things I did. I even started being a bounty hunter because I was angry. I got it in my head that I could hunt down Neal myself and make him pay. I'd turn him in and smile while his ass got thrown into jail. And then I'd tell him about the child that he'd lost. So I get it, you know? The need for vengeance? Not to the extremes you went, but there was a time when I wanted nothing more than to make him hurt."

"But none of that happened. You never found him, did you?"

"No. I looked for him for over a year, and even came close a couple times. Then one day I woke up in a hotel room in Vancouver, and I looked at myself in the mirror and I realized that this person I'd become was completely my own fault. Neal may have started me along, but I chose my path."

"But you continued doing the job anyway?"

"Yeah, because people like me who had hurt people like that couple deserved to be stopped," Emma says, and she feels an old familiar self loathing roll upwards in her stomach. "So that's what I did."

"Did it make it better? Did it balance the scales?" It's an honest question asked in a tone that sounds so very young and almost even hopeful.

"Only slightly." She shrugs her shoulders. "Last night, you said that you didn't think you had the right to another chance. Maybe neither did I, but I got one, anyway. Maybe I made one for myself, and maybe I didn't deserve it anymore than you do but hiding away in my bed didn't make anything I did better. Eventually, you just got to live. And do better. Be better."

And then she does something that surprises even herself; she reaches out with her hand and puts it over Regina's squeezing it lightly. She looks up and meets Regina's eyes when she does it, insisting on a connection.

"So that's what this. And that's what we're going to do."

"You make it sound so easy. Like change."

"It's not, and it never will be, but I am here for you, Regina. If you want to talk about songs that you don't want to remember or if you want to talk about what Gold did to you, I'm here."

"And if I want to talk about what I did to Graham?"

It's only slightly an attempt at pushing Emma back, but mostly it's a legitimate query, a question meant to feel for the walls of this new relationship. It's an attempt to figure out what lines can't be crossed.

"Then we talk about Graham. I might get angry as all hell at you because I am so goddamned far from perfect that it hurts sometimes, but I'll listen as long as you're honest with me. No more bullshit, Regina. If you feel like you're about to come apart, you tell me, and you let me help."

"You don't deserve this. It's not your fault who I am, but it is my fault who you are," Regina states. "If I had never –"

"Then there wouldn't be a Henry," Emma shrugs. "What's done is done, and maybe if you don't snap and do the curse, I end up in a dress."

She groans at the very thought of this.

"They weren't all awful," Regina insists with something of a smile.

"Whatever. Your move. And your story."

"What do you want to know?"

"Daniel. Tell me about the first time you met him?"

"Why?"

"Because life isn't all about the pain. It took me awhile to remember that but eventually, I did. Eventually I remembered the kids who taught me to play chess for cigarettes, and maybe it's not something I don't want Henry to ever do, but it was actually one of the good times I had. It was fun."

"Daniel," Regina says, rolling the name over in her head. She'd already told Emma about meeting Snow and how his death had tied into that, but this is different because yes, her first memories of the stable boy had been wonderful. He'd been a sweet boy from the moment they'd met.

Kind and gentle and so very innocent.

In spite of the pain that still weighs her heart down, Regina smiles.

And begins to speak the boy whose death had changed her entire life.

* * *

It takes her almost two hours, and a drive all the way around the little town that is Haydenport, but eventually Emma finds chicken soup that even Regina – after a quick sniff – approves of.

Henry, of course, loves it.

It's clear that he's feeling quite a bit better, enough so that he's asking for ice cream, and to watch TV. The kid is milking it, and that's okay.

When it's time for bed, he settles down into his blankets and grins up at both of his mothers as they each lean down to kiss him.

He doesn't seem to care that Emma has no idea how to react when the retching begins, and he doesn't seem to mind that Regina is overly cautious and takes his temperature at least three times more times.

He sure as hell doesn't seem to mind a bit when Regina and Emma both settle into slightly uncomfortable chairs on opposite sides of the room, the two of them intent on staying with him until he falls asleep.

Getting sick hadn't been part of the master plan to heal his mothers, he muses as he succumbs to the colorful shadows that are dancing around at the edges of his vision, but he'll gladly take the results of it anyway because it's quite clear to him that something has changed between them.

Something has changed with his adoptive mother.

He doesn't understand pain and hurt the way that adults do, but he knows enough to see the difference in the way she's sitting and moving.

He thinks he knows what hope looks like.

It's in the way she looks at him, a gentle playing over his lips as she reaches out to brush his hair back. And it's in how she looks at Emma, like they're no longer enemies, like they get each other and are fighting the same battle.

These concepts are far beyond the comprehension of even a bright eleven-year-old boy, but he gets them, anyway, because hope is hope.

And for the first time in a long time, Henry Mills thinks he sees it.

**TBC…**


	14. 11

A/N:As always, many many thanks for all of the wonderfully kind words; they are always appreciated, and gratefully received.

As always, a reminder that while romance and non-platonic feelings do play very strong roles in this story, it remains about healing first and foremost.

Content Advisories: Excessive length, Neal being a douche, salty language, a bit of pool hustling, some violence against an innocent cell phone, and a wee bit of f/f kissing.

**Enjoy!**

* * *

As it turns out, actually being sick isn't really the worst part of the whole coming down with the flu thing; no, the worst of it all is the aftermath, which includes three days of mother-enforced bed rest. Three days, which up until this morning have featured nearly continuous rainstorms, a increasingly cranky Savior in desperate need of a run, and a former Evil Queen, who after winning only two games out of the first twelve chess matches played, finds herself very much missing a little wood fort.

Lucky for Henry, he's pretty much slept through all of it.

On the other hand, he wonders just how lucky he really is when he comes out of his bedroom on the third day after falling ill with the stomach bug to find his mothers sitting on separate sides of the Living Room, neither saying a word to the other as both of them gaze down intently at their books.

Well, to be more exact about it, Emma's reclined across the couch chewing her nails as she's reading, while Regina looks calm and typically poised, sitting in a chair, her bare feet crossed at the ankles in front of her.

"Are you guys fighting again?" Henry asks, not even bothering to hide his exasperation. Three days earlier, he'd seen them sitting over him, working together to take care of him, but now there's this, and he wonders what he's missed, and if things will ever get easier for any of them.

Regina sighs, and puts down a novel with balloons on the cover, a slight hint of distaste in her expression as she folds a bookmark between the pages. "No, dear," she assures him. "I think we just ran out of things to say to each other."

Emma snorts at this, and puts down her own book – one that looks oddly like the kind of true crime novel that his adoptive mother would read. He notices that unlike Regina, Emma simply folds a page over to mark it.

"Something you'd like to add, Miss Swan?" Regina asks, turning her head to the side, a slight smile playing over pale lips that haven't seen lipstick in a little over five weeks now. It's a bit funny to Emma just how used to this Regina she's quickly become; this woman is dressed casual and wears no makeup, and when she's not being a pain in the ass, she's almost fun to be around.

Almost.

The rest of the time, well, there'd been at least one incident with chess pieces flying across the room.

Actually, Emma muses with a small smile spreading it's way across her face, that'd been moderately fun as well, though perhaps in all the wrong ways.

"What your mom means to say is that she got sick of me kicking her butt at chess, and decided to try reading one of my books so that she could find something new to harass me about," Emma cracks.

Regina doesn't even bother to hide the roll of her eyes. "It's really not hard; this book is about a clown living in the sewers. It's utterly ridiculous."

"I thought you liked Stephen King."

"No, I said that he was more nuanced about good and evil than most writers in this world; he's still messy, pedestrian, juvenile and –"

"Right, got it," Emma drawls. "You have the imagination of a pencil. You know what? That actually explains your love for true crime novels." She gestures to the book on the table. "Which, by the way, is awful."

"But true. Unlike this."

"How do you know?" Emma shrugs. "Maybe there is a Pennywise somewhere. I mean, you are a storybook character, too."

"Emma," Regina cautions.

"What? There can be Evil Queens but not Evil Clowns?"

"I don't like clowns," Henry admits, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

"Not since his fifth birthday."

"Do I want to know?" Emma asks, trying very hard not to laugh.

Mother and son at the same time shake their heads.

"Got it. For later maybe?"

Another look, and another shake of their heads, this one perfectly synced.

"Right," Emma chuckles. Then, to Regina, "Don't think I won't get it out of you; you know I will eventually."

"We'll see, dear," Regina responds, lifting up an eyebrow in challenge.

"Wait, so, you guys aren't actually fighting?" Henry asks, unable to hide his confusion. "Or you are and you're fighting about…books?"

"No, we're not," the blonde sheriff answers with a chuckle as she rises from the couch. "But we are glad to see you up. How are you feeling?"

"Better. Hungry," he replies, once again looking between his mothers as if to suggest that he's trying to figure out what's going on with them.

"Yeah, me, too," Emma admits. "But I think we're getting close to the back of the cupboard as far as food goes."

"Let me translate that for you, sweetheart," Regina offers, standing up from her chair in a manner that seems to completely disregard the less than glamorous sweatpants that she's wearing. How she manages to look regal in baggy gray cotton, Emma will never know, but damn does the former queen actually manage to pull it off. "She finished off the chips last night, ate the last of the bacon this morning, and is out of her cheap beer as well."

"And cheap wine," Emma reminds her. "You knocked that out last night."

"True."

"So we need to go into town, then?" Henry asks. "For food, I mean."

"Yeah, I guess we do," Emma replies with a nod. She glances back at Regina, and watches the way the older woman has stepped back towards the chair she'd been previously sitting in. While she hasn't quite gone cold – the last three days have been spent conversing with each other about little things that don't really matter, but things just the same and there's a calm kind of companionship that has seemed to settle over the two of them – Emma can tell that Regina is trying to hide her disappointment at –

At what?

At them leaving to shop for food?

No, Emma realizes with a start, at being left; Regina is disappointed about once again being left behind. This new self-aware and self-conscious Regina no doubt considers her feelings silly, because Emma and Henry are just going into town for a few short hours as they've done a dozen times since they first arrived in Haydenport, but right now fear of abandonment is at the very core of things, and Emma is suddenly hit with the understanding that this is a cycle that has to be broken.

It's not enough for Regina to heal herself inside these four walls; she has to have faith that she can do the same on the outside. In short, the former queen has to learn to believe in herself and that isn't going to happen if she keeps getting left behind whenever a supply run is required.

It's time to do something different, Emma thinks.

"Why don't you come with us?" the sheriff asks her, keeping her tone light. The last thing she wants is for Regina to think she's being pitied.

"What?"

"Really?" Henry chrips, eyes wide and bright.

"Yeah," Emma nods. "We need to get some groceries and maybe stop and get some lunch somewhere. The only food left around here is peanut butter and jelly, and while I personally find it rather hilarious watching you try to figure out how to look like a Queen while eating a PB&J sandwich, I think maybe we could all do with a day out after three spent cooped up inside."

"You have cabin fever," Regina notes.

"Don't you?"

The brunette woman shrugs her shoulders in a gesture that seems vaguely defeated. "I've spent a lot of time alone inside my house over the last year."

"Well, not today. Everyone get showered up; we're heading into town."

Henry grins ear to ear, "Awesome," he says, and then turns and heads back (almost hopping as he goes as only a kid can) towards his bedroom.

Before Regina can even say a word (and she will because she seems to be completely incapable of believing that any act of kindness can be offered simply for the sake of offering it), Emma turns to her and says, "There's no ulterior motive, I swear; I just think it might be nice for the kid to spend the day out with both of us. And yeah, I have cabin fever like crazy."

"So that's it? Nothing else?"

"All right, so maybe I thought you might like to get some fresh air that doesn't smell so much like salt and dead fish," Emma shrugs. The implication of "and maybe it's time for you to get out of the house" is as clear as day.

"Than you," Regina says softly. She almost seems shy when she says this, and it unnerves Emma more than a little; this is that young Regina that she's seen a few times over the last couple of days. She seems happier, but less confident by far. The worst of it, though, is that when this one drops away, something darker and more pained takes over. It's not split personalities or anything like that; it's a matter of Regina still trying to figure out who she is now that her armor has finally cracked open. It's a matter of finding balance between the different sides of herself, and she's still struggling like hell to find it.

These constant mood shifts are a bit exhausting even if Emma _has_ enjoyed the relative calm of things.

"Don't thank me," Emma tells her. "This place was never meant to be a prison for you. Sounds like you already had that with your own house."

"Many houses," Regina admits, and then clamps her mouth shut.

"Yeah, well not this one. Now if you don't mind, I'm going to go change into something you won't mock me for going out with you and Henry in."

"You have such an outfit?"

"Yes, Your Majesty, I do," Emma chuckles. "What about you?"

"Well, I have the clothes you bought for me so…no."

Emma snorts. "Right; I'll see you in a few minutes." She shakes her head in mock exasperation, and then exits the Living Room, leaving the former queen standing by herself next to the couch. All the while wondering why exactly she feels so damned nervous about seeing civilization and other people for the first time in six weeks.

She's a former Queen and a former Mayor, she reminds herself with a bit of irritation and self-loathing; dealing with people is what she does. Yes, she thinks, she can do this. It's beyond absurd to think that she can't. She can smile and make nice, and enjoy some time with her son and his –

Well, she can enjoy some time away from this place. Yes, that.

She closes her eyes for a moment, trying like hell to center and balance herself. These things are fleeting to her these days, and when she sees them – even if only for the briefest of moments – she grabs at them greedily, because it is only when she has balance that she feels like herself.

It is only then when she feels like she has any degree of control.

She counts to sixty, and then does it again. She breathes in, she breathes out. She thinks of a grove of trees and a hill, and she's walking towards it, her hand out-stretched as if to take a piece of fruit off of the -

"Mom?" she hears.

Her eyes snap open, and she looks down to see Henry watching her.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"I am," she replies, forcing a smile that doesn't meet her eyes. She wonders if he'd seen her breathing exercises, and wonders what he thinks of them.

She wonders if he thinks that Emma taught her these, too, and then hopes that he doesn't ask, because she doesn't want to have to admit to him that she'd learned such things from Rumple during the early days of her training with him. Back then, he'd taught her how to control her breathing because she'd been unable to focus her magic, and he'd needed better of her. Now, four decades removed from that training, she uses his old tricks to try to keep herself from panicking. They're simplistic, but they work.

So maybe there was one thing good that'd come of her association with Rumple. Well, two, she thinks as she looks down at her son.

"Are you scared?"

She laughs, the sound humorous even though she's not amused. His look tells her that he sees right through her, though, and she sighs in response.

"A little," she admits, because really she is tired of lying to him.

"It's okay," he tells her with a careless shrug of his shoulders. "We'll be there with you."

"I know," she confirms, not bothering to tell him how much this conversation hurts, and how much she hates that she needs her eleven year old son to keep her from wanting to scream in frustration and fear.

"Cool," he nods. "Then you should probably get out of those sweats."

"You picked them out."

"No," he corrects her with a vehement shake of his head. "I didn't."

"They are ugly," she admits with a conspiratorial chuckle, reaching down to pick at the gray cotton. After a moment, as if remembering that such motions show off the anxiety that seems to roll through her constantly these days, she snatches her hand back, and lays it across the top of her other hand.

"The worst," he confirms.

She laughs fully this time, then leans down and kisses him on the top of the head. "I love you," she tells him, speaking into his ear, her voice so very soft. Her arms slip around him, and she feels like she's about to cry when his circle around her torso in response. This is that weird unbalance that she always feels around him – more these days than ever – but she's not terribly sure if she wants this to go away, because these moments are pure heaven.

He grins up at her, a thousand watt smile full of easy happiness that makes her want to hold him just a little bit tighter (she doesn't, though, because doing so has never worked out for the better for them, and more than anything in this world or any other, she wants to do right by him).

She finds that she doesn't even need to say the words after such an amazing smile freely offered; she just needs him to keep offering it to her.

Every day.

Forever.

And if she has to break into a thousand little pieces to make that happen, she will just as long as he's there to help her pick them back up again.

She knows that that's not fair to him; he's still just a young boy, and he deserves so much better than a broken and damaged mother who is falling apart a little bit more with every day that passes by. She likes to think (hope) that she's coming together again, too, but slowly.

One day, she tells herself. One day she'll be strong enough not to need him.

One day.

But that day is not today, and for as long as he's willing to put his arms around her and hug her, well then she's damn well going to accept the embrace and return it back to him with all the love she feels for him.

* * *

She's standing in the middle of her bedroom, trying to decide between a red sweater and a black hoodie when her cell phone rings. She lets the first two rings go, considers allowing it to go to voicemail, and then sighs and grabs at it, scowling when she sees the name on the screen. She'd been expecting David or Archie – or even Mary Margaret by now – but not him.

"Neal," Emma sighs as she brings the phone to her ear.

"Well, that's just shy of 'what'," he chuckles, and she has a moment of wondering how hard it would be to get a replacement phone if she were to throw the one she's currently holding against the far wall of the room.

It's not that she hates the guy; she honestly doesn't really feel anything for him anymore, but she knows why he's calling, and that makes her grind her teeth because honestly, the timing of what he wants is all wrong.

They're just starting to make progress, she and Regina, and the last thing she wants or needs is for them to get kicked back to square one because Neal, who had rather effortlessly managed to go eleven years without seeing his son (that he hadn't known about him is irrelevant to Emma; that lack of knowledge is his own fault), suddenly has to see him right now.

She wonders if she's being completely unfair; after all not too long ago she'd been the one butting into Henry's life after a long time away. She'd been the unwanted interloper, the one that the rightful parent had been trying desperately to keep out and away from Henry.

She'd been the inconvenience.

But still…

"What do you want?" she asks him, grabbing for the charcoal hoodie. The weather has finally warmed up again – well as warm as it gets around here, anyway – but it's still chilly, and it can start raining again at any time.

The fun of living on the coast of Maine, where apparently it rains, considers raining and threatens to rain. Not that she's complaining or anything. She's not – not really – she just wishes it'd stay dry for longer than three minutes.

"I was hoping we could talk about the promise you made me," he says.

And yeah, there it is.

She considers reminding him of promises that he'd made to her before he'd chosen to surrender her to some kind of destiny that even he hadn't been terribly clear on, but that's water under the bridge, and the last thing she wants him thinking is that her irritation means she's not over him.

It's not about that.

It's about not wanting him to ruin the things that are happening here.

It's about the woman currently showering, and the child sitting on the couch flipping through one of his comic books. It's about family and healing and –

She shakes her head. Stay focused, she tells herself. Don't get overdramatic.

"Now's not a good time," she tells him, trying to sound as casual as she can.

"You said that five weeks ago. I've been patient."

She laughs sharply, harshly. "You do remember that you don't actually have a right to him, yeah?" It's a cruel jab, but it feels more than a little owed.

Which makes her feeling absolutely awful, because if life were all about getting what you deserved, then neither she nor Regina would be here.

And then, course, he wipes away all the guilt she's feeling by replying in a snide, but still lazy tone, "Neither do you. Or have you forgotten while you're playing house with our boy's adoptive mother. The Evil Queen."

"Neal," she growls, her voice slightly muffled by fabric as she pulls the hoodie on over her head, smoothing it down over her lean stomach.

She hears him sigh in response, and in her mind's eye, she can quite clearly see him putting up his hands in surrender, because that's what Neal does; he gives in when things get too hard for him. She's always considered herself a runner, but he makes her look like an amateur in that regard.

"Hey, no," he says in that strange "aw shucks" way that he has. "That was dumb. I'm sorry, Em; I didn't mean anything by that. It just came out and you know… look, I just…I miss him, you know? I just want to see him."

"And you will. I promised you that, and I mean to keep the promise, but it's not just my call, Neal; like you said, I don't have legal rights to him, either, which means that when he can see you is up to her, and not just me."

"Then I'll never see him," Neal answers dully. "That's not fair."

It's in moments like this that she's reminded how much of a man-child her ex truly is. When she'd been eighteen years old, she hadn't noticed, because he'd been fun and reckless and that's what she wanted at that point in her life; she'd wanted to be out of control and he'd been just fine with that.

Now, though…

Now, she wants more for herself and for Henry.

Now she needs more for everyone.

"Neal," she starts again, doing her best to calm her voice even and calm.

"Talk to her, Em; make her understand." Now he's just whining, and she's again struck by the desire to throw her phone. He's not always like this, she reminds herself, but she does remember this state entirely too well; she knows that when he hits the wall between want and have, he tends to regress; he becomes the boy that spent hundreds of years in Neverland.

She wonders why everyone in her life has emotional maturity issues.

She laughs again. "Seriously? Do you not remember her threatening to rip your throat out for even thinking about touching Henry?"

"I remember, but she trusts you, right? I mean she hasn't tried to kill you."

She winces sharply at his words. While technically true, they're a complete understatement in regards to the relationship that she believes that she's built with the former queen over the last six weeks.

She likes to think that they're starting to approach something more than just trust by now, maybe even something that looks a little bit like friendship.

"Yeah," she confirms. "But –"

"Talk to her," he pushes again. "Please."

"Fine," she growls out, mostly because she's so done with this conversation, and his tone of his voice, and his belief that he has a right to Henry, and yeah, she gets the irony, but dammit, Regina does trust her and –

"Thanks," he says quietly, and she closes her eyes, allowing a wave of guilt to wash over her. He doesn't deserve the sympathy, empathy or whatever, but she hates to think that she could ever be vengeful enough to deny Henry a father just because she really wouldn't mind hurting Neal a bit.

It's not who she is, not who she wants to be.

"Sure," she says. "I'll talk to you later."

"Soon?"

"Neal."

"Soon," he says again, this time a statement. "Later, Em." The phone clicks off, and this time she does throw it, as hard as she can against the wall.

"Telemarketer, dear?"

Oh, of course.

She takes a deep breath, then turns around, and offers Regina – who is standing in the doorway dressed in slacks, a red blouse and a dark oversized men's peacoat that she'd found in one of the closets - the fakest smile ever.

"Yep," the blonde lies, her eyes sliding down to take in the heels that Regina is wearing. They give her several inches, making her look much taller than she is. Much more in control and queenly, Emma muses.

"Mm. Did they offer you encyclopedias?" Regina asks, stepping deeper into the room, the sound of her heels getting lost into the plush carpet.

"The whole damn set."

"You could have just asked," Regina drawls, her dark amused eyes making it clear that she doesn't believe a word Emma is saying. "I have them already."

Emma wrinkles her nose. "Really?"

"I was new to this world," Regina answers with a shrug. "And while the curse gave me much in the way of information, it failed to give me details on so-called pop culture. People like Bruce Springsteen for example." She trails off when she says this last part, seeming slightly thoughtful, a bit sad even.

"Right. Well, I opted out. Too hard a sell," Emma tells her.

"So I see," Regina replies, shaking off whatever it was that had been bothering her. Her eyes track over to the broken phone, and her brow lifts. "I suppose we'll need to include phone replacement on our list today?"

"Yeah," Emma admits sheepishly. "It slipped."

"Mm."

Their eyes meet, then, and it's quite clear to her that Regina desperately wants to ask her what that the phone call was really all about. For whatever reason, though, the former queen doesn't push for truth, and Emma thinks that maybe she should just offer up the information anyway, because this is a conversation that they will need to have eventually anyhow.

Not yet, though, Emma decides.

She needs to decompress, and let go of the anger and frustration.

If she's going to keep her promise to Neal, and do right by Henry, she needs to present her (his) case in a way that doesn't beg Regina to say no.

So instead, she smiles. "You ready to head into town?"

"I am."

"In heels?"

"I like my heels. They're elegant and sophisticated."

"Uh huh. Whatever you say, Madam Mayor. Personally, I think you just like to pretend that you're taller than me," Emma teases, earning her a lifted eyebrow and a not quite haughty but definitely superior look in return.

It's familiar and comfortable and completely them, and just like that, Emma feels almost all of the tension bleed away from her shoulders.

An easy smile passes between the two women, and then Emma offers her hand towards the door of the room, as if to say "after you." Regina holds the blonde's eyes for a moment longer – long enough for Emma to squirm just a little bit beneath unnerving scrutiny - and then she nods her head.

"I'll make sure Henry is ready to go, and we'll meet you by the car."

"Right; give me two minutes, and I'll be out."

Regina starts to turn, but then stops, and with her back still to Emma, says in a soft voice that is almost trembling beneath the weight of what sounds a whole lot like fear and worry and even rejection, "Are you all right?" She pushes her hands into her pockets as she asks the question. It's a motion that Emma has come to associate with Regina feeling insecure and exposed; it's like she thinks hiding her hands will somehow protect her.

Or maybe she thinks putting them away will protect others. She might not have magic out here, but old instincts die hard, and sometimes you just have to holster yourself especially when you stop trusting your self-restraint.

There it is, Emma realizes. Neal might have been right; Regina might trust her blonde counterpart now, but she clearly still doesn't trust herself. She doesn't have faith in herself not to lose her mind over the things that she's afraid to hear. Which means until she does, her hands go into her pockets.

"I am," Emma assures her because she suddenly understands just how much they both need the security that they've carved out for themselves over the last few weeks. "I'm good. Really. I just hate persistent salesmen."

"Of course." Regina nods before leaving the room, closing the door softly behind her. Once she's gone, Emma allows for a loud sigh before she crosses the room and scoops up the broken phone into her hand.

She tells herself that she's not going to think about Neal anymore today; she'll deal with him and his untimely request later. Today is about getting outside and having some fun with her son and his adoptive mother.

Today is about new beginnings and not old hurts.

Today is about family.

She chuckles, and thinks for a moment about how strange life is.

How very strange indeed.

* * *

Grocery shopping with a former Evil Queen is bad enough; she's almost intolerably bossy about what goes into the basket. Add to that the fact that she just might be the most anal retentive mother ever, and it's almost surprising that a bag of Sun Chips manages to stay when everything else with more than ten grams of sugar finds itself tossed back to the shelf.

It's only when Henry finally pleads for something that doesn't taste like cardboard, and Emma adds her own voice to his desperate request that Regina finally sighs and gives in. "M&Ms," she grunts. "I like those.

"Blue or green?" Emma asks, because how she could resist such a question.

"They all taste the same," Regina counters, looking at the blonde like she's utterly ridiculous. After a moment, though, grudgingly, "Red, I suppose."

"I like the blue ones," Henry states as he tosses three bags of the plain M&Ms into the cart. He reaches out for a fourth, but an arched eyebrow from Regina stops him cold and he steps away from the candy rack. There's the briefest moment of awkwardness between the two of them – like Regina is trying to figure out if it's wrong thing to do to deny Henry the sugar he obviously desires and he's trying to decide if he should push the advantage over her emotions that he so clearly has – but then just like that, he shrugs his shoulders and turns his attention to powdered doughnuts, instead.

"Green for me," Emma states, grinning more than is appropriate.

The joke goes flying over Regina's head, but even she can't help but chuckle just a little bit at the youthful exuberance that both Henry and Emma are showing. Even she can't resist the pull towards the two of them.

Then again, she never has been able to.

"We need bacon," she says after a moment, her voice sounding thick.

"I'll get it," Henry offers, before scurrying around towards the cold goods.

"It's just bacon," Emma tells her because she has a pretty good idea what strange thoughts might be going through Regina's mind right about now.

She has a pretty good idea just how much Regina hungers for moments like the one that the three of them had just shared together. She knows that Regina craves the ease with which Henry has always been able to show Emma affection. She desperately desires the bond she sees between them.

And she probably wonders if sugar and bacon would make a difference.

"Of course," Regina nods, hiding away again. "We also need milk."

"On my way," Emma assures her. "Anything else?"

"Well, lettuce, too, but being that I'm not sure you know what that looks like when it's not between two buns, I think I'll take care of that."

"Good call. Since I'm down that aisle anyway, I'll grab the wine."

"As you said," Regina drawls. "Good call."

It doesn't occur to Emma until she's halfway down the aisle that Regina hadn't told her which wine to pick out. It's small to the point of miniscule, and to absolutely anyone and everyone else, it'd mean nothing at all.

To Emma Swan, though, it's another confirmation of the strange not at all ordinary brand of trust that continues to grow between them. It means something exactly because it had been offered without comment or fanfare.

It means something because these days, everything does.

As Emma picks up the best bottle of red wine that she can find – something that's dry and spicy and completely up Regina's alley – she knows for a fact that come this evening, she'll be telling the former queen the truth about her unhappy conversation with Neal.

It'll be uncomfortable and unpleasant as all hell, but it has to happen.

Hopefully, Emma thinks as she tucks a jug of milk under her arm, they've come far enough over the last several weeks that when it does happen, Regina will understand that they're on the same side on this issue.

And if she doesn't, well, they'll work through that, too.

It's kind of what they do these days, anyway.

* * *

After the groceries are packed away into the back of Ruby's car, the trio stops in at the only store in town that sells cell phones. It's tiny, and the models that they have are absolutely ridiculous in how badly aged they are.

Enough so that Emma – never one for restraint - can't stop herself from making an admittedly lame crack about how this town must be stuck in time.

It's a badly delivered joke, which does little for her beyond earning her an identical look of amused disgust from both Henry and Regina.

She shrugs her shoulders helplessly, as if to say she couldn't help it.

And then she forks over two hundred dollars for a phone that she's pretty sure she could have gotten off EBay for twenty bucks. Apparently, needing the damned thing immediately allows them to gouge her.

Well, if she's thinks she's about to get any sympathy from Regina or Henry, she's completely barking up the wrong tree, because they both look at her like she's the village idiot, and honestly, she kind of feels like she is.

Breaking a phone against the wall? Not exactly something a woman who's almost thirty and a mother and the goddamned Savior should do, right?

On the other hand, aside from the looks she gets from the former queen, Regina stays curiously quiet; she doesn't dig for information or push for the details of exactly why the phone had been shattered (she's under no illusions that Regina had bought her lame salesman cover story), and it all just makes Emma feel a whole lot worse because this whole new start between them is supposed to be built on a foundation of trust.

But then maybe that's the point, Emma thinks as she pockets the phone, and holds the door for Henry and Regina to go through; maybe this is about trust, and Regina trusts the blonde sheriff to talk to her when the time is right. Maybe this is that leap of faith that she's been pushing Regina to take.

Or maybe, Emma muses, maybe she's overthinking the hell out of things.

"Careful, dear," she hears Regina say, her voice low and throaty.

"What?" Emma blinks.

"You're about to walk into the door."

And of course, she's right; Emma looks up to see that she's standing about half an inch away from the same door that she'd been holding open. Only, instead of walking through it, she'd been moving towards it.

She groans.

"Mom?" Henry asks, head tilted. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just hungry. Low blood-sugar."

"Shall we get you a ho-ho?"

Emma lifts an eyebrow, but then – remembering that Henry is with them - quickly thinks better of the first three replies that come shooting into her mind. "No, but lunch does sound good." She points over to a little bar across the street called The Down And Dirty. "How about there?"

"You want to take Henry to lunch at a strip bar?" Regina gasps out; glaring at Emma like the blonde sheriff has completely lost her mind. It's almost amusing how utterly scandalized and horrified Regina looks right about now. Actually, scratch that – it's quite amusing. "Are you insane?"

Emma snorts. "What? No. It's just a…badly named bar. Actually, during the day it's not even really that. It's like Granny's with pool tables and darts."

"She's right, mom," Henry confirms. "We Emma had lunch there a couple of weeks ago. They've got great cheeseburgers. And milkshakes!"

"They do," Emma nods. "How about it, Your Majesty? Party with us plebs?"

"What's a pleb?" Henry asks.

"Your mother," Regina responds dryly. Then, eyebrow lifted up in challenge to Emma, she asks, "If I say no, will you break another phone?"

"I might," Emma grins.

"Well, we couldn't have that. Very well."

"So gracious."

"Em-ma," Henry sighs.

"Got it; you're hungry, and if we don't shut up, you just might die."

He shakes his head at her like she's the biggest dork in the world, and all she can do is grin in response.

* * *

Though comfortable, The Down and Dirty isn't nearly as small – or as stripper bar looking - as it appears to be from the outside. It reminds Emma of the Rabbit Hole, and she finds a degree of comfort in this realization. It'll never stop amazing her just how much she considers Storybrooke home, and how much she misses the place in spite of how being brought to town by Henry had turned her entire life upside down in the strangest of ways.

They find a small round table near the back of the bar, close enough to one of the exits that they can make a quick getaway should they find the need to do so. They're also close enough for Emma to be able to read the hand-written sign taped to the door. It reads "Only 21 Allowed In After 9PM."

"So," Emma asks after the waitress – a little redhead named Kimberly – brings over their drinks, "Ever had a hotwing before?"

"No," Regina replies as she sips from a glass of red wine. The vintage they serve here is still not top shelf, but it's still better than the best of what the grocery store offers, and the former queen makes sure to state as much.

"Because they're greasy?"

"Because they're disgusting."

"How do you know if you've never tried them?" Emma queries as she lifts her beer bottle up to her lips, and takes a deep swig of it.

"They look disgusting."

"Sound logic," Emma nods. "What about you, kid?"

Henry shakes his head.

"Well, I think it's high time to change that."

"Really? Cool," Henry nods.

"Emma," Regina cautions.

"I know; you were planning on going with a salad, and if that's what you want to do, I won't stop you. But do me a favor and try at least one wing. That's all I ask. Try one wing, and I promise I won't say another word."

"Liar." There was a time when this statement would have been delivered with vitriol, but that seems to be behind them for the time being.

"Probably," Emma chuckles. "But humor me on this one." She looks over at Henry, who is watching his mothers interact with what appears to be some kind of amused fascination, and winks at him. He grins back at her.

She can almost see the wheels turn in Regina's mind, like she's examining the offer and looking for the trap. She licks her lips, and then nods her head.

"Fine, but just one," she says, as if confirming the details.

"Just one," Emma nods. "And then you can eat your rabbit food."

"It's healthy," Regina grumbles, folding and refolding her napkin.

"True, but it's not nearly as much fun as a bacon cheeseburger or hotwings doused in atomic sauce," Emma challenges.

"Yes, well, neither is having a heart attack, but I digress."

"After taking one last potshot," Emma notes.

Regina smirks in response.

"Right," Emma chuckles. She waves over the waitress, orders an appetizer of wings, and then a cheeseburger for herself. Henry gets the same, and Regina, just to be completely stubborn about it, requests a Caesar.

And another glass of wine.

After the waitress leaves, Emma glances towards the pool tables, most of which are currently not in use. "Ever played?" she asks.

Henry starts to reply, but before he can get a word out, Regina says in a casual tone, "I know of the game, and yes, I've played a time or two."

The tone is entirely too casual, Emma thinks; she knows when she's been sharked, and every instinct in her body is telling her that right now, the former queen is playing her. Or at least she's trying to do so.

And yet like a moth to the flame, she goes willingly.

"Food will take a bit," she says, "Up for a game?"

"If I recall the last game we played, it didn't end well for me."

"I'll be gentle," Emma promises, because this is what a mark is supposed to say, and right now she really wants to know if her instincts are spot on.

The look that Henry is throwing towards his adoptive mother – disbelief and a bit of amusement – tells her that they are.

"Mm," Regina nods. "Should we set a wager?"

"Sure." She glances over at Henry. "Our usual? A story?"

"What kind of story?" Henry asks, sitting up straighter.

"The boring kind," Regina responds. "But I was thinking something a little more interesting. Maybe even healthier."

"I don't like the sound of that."

"If I win, the both of you have to eat salad for lunch for the next week."

"Mom," Henry says, shaking his head, and Emma just knows that her kid is about to sell out Regina over rabbit food. It'd be hilarious except for the fact that she just can't predict how the former queen will react to things.

It'd be just like Regina to lose her cool over Henry choosing salad over some little secret that the two of them have.

So Emma smoothly steps in, "How about just me? The kid shouldn't have to suffer for me accidentally scratching on the eight ball."

Regina lifts an eyebrow. "Fine. Henry, you're off the hook."

And that's all it takes for the kid to settle back in his chair, a slight uncertain frown on his lips as he tries to figure out just what the hell is going on here.

"And if I win," Emma says, pushing forward. "You have to eat a full on greasy cheeseburger – with all the fixings. Including bacon." She meets Regina's eyes when she says this, and though she sees a flash of something go across the older woman's face, Regina finally responds with a sharp nod.

"You have yourself a deal, Sheriff," she says.

"Great, then I'll be nice and even let you break."

"How kind," Regina drawls, and yeah, this is a sharking and a half. Emma wonders if it'd be convincing if she was someone different, someone unaware of how to play every angle of every con every created.

They stand up and silently make their way over to the table, trailed closely by Henry, who seems just a little bit nervous that they might use the pool cues on each other instead of on the balls. He jumps up on a stool next to the table, and accepts both of their jackets across his knees.

Once the balls are racked up, and Regina is moving around to the top of the table with her pool cue in hand, Emma slides up next to her, and lowering her voice says, "By the way, I know when someone is trying to hustle me."

The reaction she gets is unexpected indeed; instead of surprise and maybe even anger, she receives a wide megawatt smile that is utterly breathtaking in it's intensity and lack of self-conscious reservation. "Good," the former queen says with a wicked gleam in her eyes that Emma hadn't realized that she'd been missing until just now. "All the better to beat you, my dear. I assume you're comfortable with a no-scratch, called-shot match?"

"I am. Game on?" Emma challenges.

"Game on," Regina confirms before bending over the table and executing a picture perfect break. She watches as the multi-colored balls spin around for a moment or two, and then with a wide grin announces, "Solids."

She watches from a position next to Henry as Regina leans over the table again, and she thinks to herself that this should be fun.

That is unless she ends up eating salad for a week.

The very thought of this is enough to make Emma narrow her eyes, and focus on the game at hand. Regina might be a shark, but really, how good can a former Evil Queen who's been locked away in her house actually be?

* * *

As it turns out, the answer to that question is very good, indeed.

The first match is at least fairly tight, but the next two are complete blowouts, and where as Regina is a sore loser, she's rather an ass about winning. She, of course, hides it behind what might appear to be gracious statements such as, "good game, dear" and "you tried" but Emma sees right through it all. And finds herself laughing just the same.

Because dammit if Regina isn't enjoying herself, and it's quite nice to see.

Even if it's going to cost Emma dearly.

"Okay, so out with it," Emma demands as they're sitting back at the table. The wings have been delivered (they'd ask the waitress to hold up until they'd finished their games) but have thus far stayed untouched.

"Out with what?" Regina asks between sips of her wine.

"How? Somehow I don't see you hanging out in the Rabbit Hole."

Regina wrinkles her nose. "You would be correct."

"Exactly. So?"

"We have a table," Henry says. "Down in the basement."

"You have a basement?"

"Indeed. The house is quite large. The table was there when we arrived, and well, I've had plenty of time to practice over the years."

"So, I noticed." Emma shakes her head. "I kicked your ass at chess, and you destroyed me at pool; I don't think that's how it's supposed to go."

"Probably not," Regina admits, her eyes flickering down to the wings.

"You ready?" Emma prompts, seeing what she's looking at.

"I suppose. Just one, right?"

"Mm hmm, and then you can gnaw away at your lettuce."

"You, too, dear," Regina reminds her.

"Oh, no. Not yet. Not until tomorrow. For the rest of today, at least, I get to eat like I want my veins to explode with happiness."

"Well, they'll certainly explode with something."

"You're stalling," Henry points out.

And she is, that much is clear to Emma. It makes her laugh far more than is appropriate that a woman like Regina who has seen and done the things that she has is afraid of something as banal as a chicken wing.

And yet from the apprehensive look on her face, she clearly is.

"What is it?" Emma asks. "Is it really just dislike of greasy food?"

"I was a Queen," she says simply, like that should explain everything.

"So you weren't allowed to eat anything that tastes good?" Henry queries.

"I was expected to stay in good shape," Regina replies, and it's a terribly sanitized answer for what surely indicates something far darker.

Something that smells and sounds and looks a whole lot like loss of control.

"Well, I don't care if you're fat," Henry shrugs as he reaches for one of the wings. The words are so careless, but also so endearingly honest. Enough so that even if a part of Regina wants to rail against them, she simply can't.

She laughs instead, and it's quite beautiful, Emma thinks.

She wonders why she's never noticed before just how open and honest and free Regina looks when she laughs like no one is trying to pull her down.

"Good to know, sweetheart," Regina says before leaning forward and picking up one of the wings with the very tips of her fingers. She quickly deposits it onto her napkin, and then stares at it like it might bite her.

"Go on," Emma urges. "I bet you'll love them."

"I don't think you should be making anymore wagers," Regina reminds her with a mischievous glint in her dark eyes. "You've already got a week of salads ahead of you; I'm not sure that you can handle two of them."

"Yeah, probably not. Still, you _are_ stalling at this point."

"They're great, mom," Henry assures her. "Really."

Regina licks her lips, and then does it a second time. Finally, her shoulders squaring like she's going to war (a rather hilarious visual, Emma thinks, at least until she remembers that Regina actually _has_ gone to war), she lifts up the hotwing and brings it to her mouth, the red sauce smearing across her pale lips (even though she'd dressed up like her old self, she'd gone curiously absent makeup) despite her best attempts to limit the mess.

"Well," Emma says after a moment. "How is it?"

"Greasy," Regina responds as she puts down the bone, continuing to show distaste at the mess created. She quickly dabs her lips clean.

"But?" Henry prompts, grinning up at her as he reaches for another wing.

"Who said there was a but?"

"There's always a but," Emma states.

"Not always, but I suppose in this case, yes. The taste was…satisfactory."

"Which in your vocabulary means pretty damned good, yeah?"

And that earns her the eye roll that the blonde sheriff was looking for.

"Exactly," Emma nods, feeling entirely too victorious for her own good.

At that moment, Kimberly the waitress appears with the rest of their food, and an easy smile that Emma finds herself envying. Not that she would ever assume to know what goes on behind the eyes of someone she doesn't know, but she wonders what it'd be like not to have the weight of the world on her shoulders. What it would be like to be a waitress and not the Savior.

"Ladies," Kimberly drawls as she settles a hamburger in front of Emma and a salad in front of Regina. "Sweetie," she adds on as she puts Henry's food in front of him. "If there's anything else you folks need, just let me know."

She adds on a wink, and then wanders away with a swing of her backside.

Emma laughs.

"What?"

"She thinks we're together," Emma says with a shake of her head.

"We are," Henry says as he lifts the cheeseburger up to his mouth.

The two women exchange a look because Emma's words had meant something else entirely, but then Emma thinks, perhaps they hadn't.

Perhaps as always, Henry had been the one to see things clearly.

"Yeah, kid," she says. And then she reaches out and sneaks two of his fries.

"Hey!" he protests. "Eat your own."

"I like yours better."

"Emma," Regina sighs, looking exasperated and amused all at once.

And damn there's that easy smile again. She's flashing it at Henry, and she's flashing it at Emma, and she seems blissfully unaware that she actually appears to be happy for a moment, and there's nothing wrong with that.

"Fine, fine," Emma good-naturedly grumbles in response to Regina's light-hearted scolding, all the while wondering why she hadn't thought to get all of them out of the house together before today.

She knows the answer, of course; Regina hadn't been ready for a trip like this until just recently. She's still not what anyone sane would call steady and calm. Her moods continue to fluctuate badly, and her emotions are all over the place even from minute to minute. She doesn't know who she is anymore, and that's all kinds of dangerous for everyone involved.

And yet seeing this right now, seeing mother and son laughing as Henry tries to cajole Regina into taking a bite of his cheeseburger, it makes Emma feel warm. It makes her feel like the last several weeks have been worth it.

It makes her feel like maybe, just maybe the wildest most insane plan in the world – the one to kidnap a heartbroken Evil Queen before she crossed the final line of no return - just might work out beautifully for all of them.

* * *

Dinner once they're back at the beach house is a hearty beef chili that just about burns out all of Emma's sinuses. When she coughs in response to the first bite, she gets a knowing smirk from Regina, and a mischievous grin from Henry, and she knows – she just knows – that the two of them planned this dinner together specifically for the purpose of seeing her reaction.

Any other time, being made the butt of a joke might annoy her, but she actually finds herself laughing between ample gulps of ice-cold water.

Laughing and then in the same breath, wondering if she has the guts to keep the promise that she'd made to herself in the grocery store – the promise to talk to Regina tonight about the phone conversation that she'd had with Neal earlier in the day. The conversation about Henry.

One look across the table – one look at a mother and a son who are laughing together in a way that she hasn't seen in a very long time – and Emma feels her stomach clench as anxiety rolls through her.

It has to happen, she knows; the question is how.

And can it wait for a day that hasn't been as ridiculously good as this one has been? Will waiting one more day really matter all that –

She stops herself cold, because yeah, it does. She knows that she can't preach and ask for trust if she doesn't extend as much back. She can't promise herself worthy of such if she holds back hard truths.

Regina can handle this, she assures herself. Sure, the last time Neal had been seen, it'd kicked the former queen off into a nearly murderous rage that had required hot chocolate and a boxing bag to calm her down from.

And sure, Emma kind of understands Regina's fear regarding Neal.

But just as she herself a year ago had come into the picture with no intent of leaving, Neal, too, is likely here to stay, and pretending he isn't won't do any of them any good. Henry wants his father in his life, and whatever else both she and Regina think of Neal, their son has a right to that relationship.

It's while they're cleaning up after dinner – and she's watching Henry and Regina clean and stack the dishes like this is something they've done a hundred times (they have, she knows) – that she realizes that she needs to clear her head and figure out the best way to go about this.

"You guys got this?" she asks, leaning against the counter.

"Of course. Is there something wrong?" Regina asks; her perfectly sculpted eyebrow lifted in concern. She knows that Regina had seen her sudden mood shift during dinner; had seen her go from laughing with her son and his adoptive mother to quietly brooding over her darkening thoughts.

"No; it's just really nice outside and it's been a few days since I've had a chance to really stretch my legs. If it's all right –"

"Go," Regina says softly, and there's something in her dark eyes that tells Emma that the older woman sees right through her. It's unsettling, this odd familiarity that exists between them, especially in these moments.

Unsettling and oddly comforting.

"You sure?"

"You're like a child with too much sugar pumping through them, Miss Swan," Regina tells her with a dry chuckle. "And in my experience, it's best to just run all of that energy out when you have the opportunity to."

It's clearly an attempt to allow Emma the space she needs to figure things out, and the blonde finds her wondering just how much Regina already knows. Had she overheard the call? Is she just waiting to be told the truth?

And if she is, does she think less of Emma for how long it's taken? She finds herself more than a little surprised by just how much that thought bothers her especially after the day that the three of them had had together.

"Cool; thanks," Emma sighs. She nods at Henry. "You missed a spot."

"Did not."

"So the red blotch there is part of the plate?" She flicks her hand towards the dish, pointing directly at a spot of chili sauce still stuck there.

He scowls at her, and she laughs because better that then he look at her with concerns and worry. "Yes," he says, and then scrubs at it.

Her eyes flicker up, then and she catches Regina's own. She offers the older woman a small smile, one meant to reassure Regina because she can see the doubt there. And the weird fear like she's done something wrong.

If only Regina knew the truth of the matter.

Soon enough, Emma thinks, and then heads out towards the sand.

* * *

Long done with her run, she's been sitting in the sand by the edge of the water for almost an hour when she hears the soft sound of footsteps approaching from behind her. She knows who's coming towards her without even looking, because really there's only one person it could be – Regina.

This whole scene is oddly familiar to both of them, and she's just a little bit surprised when she doesn't see a bottle of whiskey in Regina's hands.

"Sorry," Regina says with a wry smile as she seats herself next to Emma in the sand, folding her legs in front of her. She's barefoot now, having long tossed off her heels. She is, however, still wearing her slacks, but has at least allowed for the cold by slipping on a hoodie. "No alcohol tonight."

"That's a shame," Emma notes. "No blanket, either?"

"Henry was using it."

"Ah."

"So, are you going to tell me what I've done this time?"

Emma closes her eyes, her fears confirmed. This is truly the last thing she'd wanted to happen, and the one thing she should have known would occur; Regina is in an extremely vulnerable place emotionally right now. She's coming face to face with her past and her deeds a little more every day, and part of that means taking responsibility for well, just about everything.

Including the things she's not sure she'd done, apparently.

"You didn't do anything," Emma assures her. "This one is on me."

"Does it have something to do with the reason you shattered your phone this morning?" the former queen queries, looking ever so slightly relieved.

"Yeah, Neal called."

"Did he now?" It sounds like a question, but Emma can hear the darkness of the tone, and the disdain that drips off every syllable. She slips her hands into the pockets of the hoodie and brings them together inside of there.

"He wants to see Henry."

"I see. And you said?"

"I said it wasn't my decision, and it's not."

Regina tilts her head. "Then whose is it?"

"Yours and mine. We're in this together, right?"

Regina nods slowly, surprised but clearly pleased. "So that's it?"

Emma's brow furrows. "What do you mean?"

"You threw a phone through a wall –"

"Into a wall, not through."

"Semantics," Regina dismisses with an impatient wave of her hand. "You had a temper tantrum and broke your phone, and then you spent all of dinner brooding about this, and this – a phone call - is all it is and was?"

"Well, when you say it like that," Emma grumbles. "And for what it's worth, I've spent more than just dinner brooding about it."

"Should that make me feel better? Tell me, dear, what reaction were you expecting from me?" She pulls her hands out of her pockets and holds them up as if to show Emma how useless they are. "I have no magic; did you think I would come after you with the knife again?"

"No! I didn't – I'm not afraid of you…I…look, I get that you don't want to let Neal into our lives. I don't really want him to see Henry, either, but –"

"But Henry wants it, and if I've learned anything over the last year, it's that trying to keep him from the people he considers family" – she closes her eyes for a moment when she says this, letting the pain and rejection of the word wash over her like ice water - "Will only lead to heartbreak and loss. If letting him see…your ex is what needs to be done –"

"Hey," Emma says with a shake of her head. "No, this isn't about losing him to Neal; I swear to you, Regina, that's not what's going to happen here."

"You only say that because since you returned to his life, you haven't actually been in danger of losing him," Regina reminds her. "I, on the other hand, spend every minute of every day wondering if some decision I'm about to make or have made will cost me my son for good."

"I'm sorry," Emma tells her, frowning as she stares out at the water. The sun is rapidly setting now, spraying reds and golds across the waves. "It all made so much sense in my head. I didn't believe you, you know?"

"When?"

"When we first met and I asked you if you loved him. You told me that you did, and I was so damned sure that you were lying. I convinced myself of it, and I never thought about what I was doing to you."

"No, you didn't," Regina confirms. "But you did think about him, and if I want to be the mother he deserves, I guess I should start doing that, too."

"I'm sorry," Emma says once more.

Regina chuckles. "You already said that." It's clear that she's remembering another conversation that had involved uncomfortable stops and starts, one that had been awkward, but had seemed so promising at the time.

"I meant for making a mess of this whole thing with Neal. I should have just told you the truth this morning, but I didn't want…I didn't want you to think I was pushing Neal on you. I didn't want you to think I was taking his side."

"Just be honest with me, Emma," Regina says with a shrug of her shoulders. "You're the only person in my life who ever has – for better or for worse – and yes, I might react badly, but I'm trying not to, and maybe that doesn't mean much because it's me, but well, I'm trying, and I hope that's enough."

"It is, and I will," Emma promises her.

"Thank you," Regina murmurs, then looks out at the water. A few long moments pass in companionable silence, and then the former queen laughs.

"What?" Emma asks curiously.

"I was just thinking about the question you asked me the night we got here. Before I tried to kill you with a kitchen knife, I mean."

"Yeah, fun times." She shakes her head. "What question?"

"About whether or not I had a childhood memory that was a good."

"You said you didn't."

"I wasn't lying," Regina assures her. "I just…didn't remember."

"You had another dream?" Emma asks with a lifted eyebrow.

"Yes, last night. It didn't end well, because other things took over, but I remembered how it actually was. It was…it wasn't bad."

"Tell me," Emma suggests, turning to look at Regina. There's an odd expression on the older woman's face, somewhat wistful.

"It was my father, and no, he wasn't a strong man, but he tried to be a good man and he did love me dearly, and that might not seem like enough to some people, but it was enough for me most of the time," the former queen answers with more than a hint of sadness in her tone.

"Okay," Emma says softly, realizing that her less than charitable feelings for Henry's namesake don't really matter; this isn't like Cora where it's a matter of Regina being in denial about all of the horrible things that her mother had done to her in the name of ambition and possession. No, maybe Henry Sr. hadn't always been a good father, but he had loved his child, and for someone who has seen so little of that in her life, that is something.

It's something that no one has the right to take away from Regina.

"Anyway," Regina continues after a moment. "I was maybe eight or so, and it was just the two of us for a few days because my mother had been called away. She rarely left us alone so it was kind of a special thing. He told me that he was going to show me some of the things he'd done as a child."

"He'd been a prince, right?" Emma queries, trying to remember some of the history she'd dug up from Mary Margaret about Regina's father.

"As a child, yes, but he'd been the youngest in his family, and there had been little expectation of him ascending to the crown. Not yet, anyway. He'd mostly been allowed to just be the young spoiled prince that he was."

"So what _does_ a young spoiled prince do?"

"He breaks every rule he can," Regina laughs. "We had a fairly large amount of property – lots of space to run and ride around in and over those three days that my mother was away, that's exactly what we did. He had one of the ladies from the kitchen pack us a lunch full of the things my mother never would have allowed me to eat, and we went out to the highest point on the estate and had a picnic. I'd never had one before. It was wonderful."

Emma thinks to point out to the former queen that she's speaking about her mother in a somewhat negative way without flinching or reacting with defensive anger, but it seems like neither the place nor the time for such.

"So when you say they packed you all the things you weren't allowed to have, you mostly mean lots of sweets?" Emma presses, tossing out her most impish of grins. "The stuff you won't eat now."

"Yes, exactly," Regina confirms with a decidedly unladylike snort. She smiles warmly at the memory. "Afterwards, he took me fishing; my mother never would have approved, because girls of my breeding didn't fish, but he taught me how to bait a line and I caught a six inch grizzle on my first try."

"Grizzle? Do I want to know?"

"It was an ugly little fish that was completely inedible, but I didn't care."

"No, I wouldn't think so," Emma nods, feeling a slight hint of jealousy. Considering the hell of Regina's own upbringing, it's unwarranted, but she feels it all the same because even a few good memories are something worth treasuring, no matter tarnished by reality they might be.

"When my mother returned a few days later, she asked what we'd been doing. She had instructed my father to show me how to better ride my horse, and he had – only he'd shown me how to ride without a saddle. You should have seen it: the two of us racing through the woods holding on for dear life. It was…it was amazing, and it was our secret. His and mine."

"Sounds like a very good memory," Emma states, carefully observing the expression on Regina's face. It's happy and open, and full of absolute joy. Her eyes are glittering, and she looks so very young and at ease.

"Yes," Regina confirms with a bright smile. "The best."

"You know, you're beautiful when you smile like that," Emma says softly. The words just spill from her lips, and the moment they're out, she rather wishes that she could pull them back because she's not sure how they'll be received by Regina. That they're true seems irrelevant at the moment.

But then Regina smiles again, this one quite a bit sadder, this one looking like the weight of the world is once against settling down upon her shoulders. "Yes, well, unfortunately this isn't the real me, is it?"

"Isn't it? There's not just one side to you, Regina," Emma reminds her. "And I think I would know that better than most people. I've seen your dark side, and after this, I think it's safe to say I've seen your…"

She trails off, frowning at how absurd the words sound in her own head.

"My light side, dear?" Regina presses, smirking.

"Yes, Your Majesty, your light side."

"Well, I suppose it's nice to know that I still have one."

"You do, and Henry got to see it today, and so did I. It was really nice. I enjoyed myself, and I know he did, and I think you did, too."

Regina turns to look at her, her eyes narrowing in disbelief and amazement as she studies Emma. She shakes her head. "I don't understand you."

"Is that good or bad?"

Regina ignores the attempt at levity. "You come at me directly about my past, and the things I've done, but then you spend all day worrying that I'll be upset over Neal wanting to spend time with Henry. You tell me the honest awful truth about who I am, but you seldom try to hurt me with that knowledge, and then you tell me that I'm not who we both know I am. I don't understand why you care so much. It doesn't make sense."

"Does it have to?"

"Yes," Regina insists. "It does."

Emma nods her head thoughtfully. "Okay. You said your father – for all the things he did and didn't do – was still a good man, right?"

"He was."

"And Neal, in spite of what he did to me, I still believe that he's a good man, too. I wouldn't let him anywhere near Henry if I didn't."

"I'm afraid I don't follow."

"What I'm saying is, I care because I see that in you, too. I see the good in you and, I see the bad and I see everything in between. I see everything, Regina, and that's scary as shit because you're scary as shit, but you're also kind of…beautiful when you are and even when you're not. I care because I see all of that in me, too. Not necessarily the beautiful part, but everything else, and maybe it's selfish of me, but I want you to see it, too, you know?"

She shrugs her shoulders as if to hide the fact that she'd just babbled out what sounds to her like incomprehensible gibberish. She knows that her words sound silly, and childish, and they make her feel so very foolish, but they feel honest and truthful and right and so very necessary.

She sighs and looks right at Regina.

She startles when she sees Regina's dark eyes - wide and surprised, and full of such intensely complicated emotion - gazing back at her. "Emma," Regina whispers. She lifts up a shaking hand and presses it against the blonde's pale cheek, her palm warm and soft against the skin there. "How do you not see what you are?" she asks in gentle disbelief. "How could you not –"

She trails off, shaking her head.

It happens, then, and Emma knows she should be surprised, and perhaps even slightly horrified – because dear God, this isn't supposed to be happening - but she isn't. Not even a little. She feels the air between them lessen, and then there's the petal soft touch of Regina's lips against her own.

Regina tastes like red wine, spicy chili and peppermint flavored coffee.

Emma doesn't answer the kiss at first; she just allows for the feel of the contact. Warm, gentle, and ever so slightly wet.

And then she does respond, moving her own lips against the ones touching hers. Her eyes close, and she enjoys the feeling, the heat and the contact, and the odd unexpected emotions that are rushing through her like fire.

That is, until she feels teeth nip against her lower lip, and everything comes crashing back to her. She pulls back and away, her mouth open in surprise.

She starts to speak, starts to say Regina's name, because she has to say something, but Regina is looking at her with so many different things rushing through her dark eyes – horror, fear, hurt and rejection.

She puts a hand out, but Regina shakes her head just a bit, and offers up the most awkward of smiles. "It's okay," Regina stammers out, but her tone and her eyes make it so very clear that it's far from okay.

"Regina," Emma finally manages, her tongue thick and her voice heavy.

Another shake of the head, this one more urgent and desperate, and then Regina pushes to her feet and quickly, with all of the dignity that she can muster up inside of her, lifts up her chin and walks back up the sand.

Emma watches her go until she approaches the house, and then she turns back towards the water, and drops her head into her hands. She mutters several curses against her palms, fighting back the urge to scream.

It shouldn't have happened, she scolds herself; she's not at all sure why it had because she certainly harbors no romantic feelings for Regina. Right?

No, none. That had just been about the emotion of the memory of her father, and maybe the conversation about acceptance and maybe -

"Fuck," she growls out, because she honestly has no idea what that was about or why she'd responded or why part of her isn't sorry that it had.

She wonders how she could have been such an idiot; the very first rule of trying to help someone – something that she'd learned from the many times she'd crashed an AA or NA meeting in hopes of cornering a mark – is to never get emotionally involved with them. Never lose perspective.

Yeah, well, that's pretty much a crock of shit when the person you're trying to help is a former evil queen and the adoptive mother of your son.

Still….

It'd just been emotion running away. That's it. That's all.

She thinks of the horrified expression that she'd seen on Regina's face after the kiss had ended; she thinks of the hurt she'd seen there. It doesn't take a genius to guess how badly Regina is probably taking the perceived rejection right about now. She's stunned to realize just how much this bothers her.

"Stop being a coward," Emma says to herself as she stands up, because this time she doesn't plan to hide behind broken phones and good intentions.

This time, she can't afford to.

* * *

Henry's is sprawled across the couch with a blanket over his legs when she enters. "Hey," he greets, putting the book he'd been reading down.

"Hey, is your mom in her room?" Emma asks, stepping past him, and heading towards the hallway like she already knows his answer.

His eyebrow lifts. "No, she went out to see you."

Emma pulls up hard, stopping in her tracks. "Wait; are you saying that she hasn't come back to the house yet?" she asks, unable to hide her worry.

He sits up straight. "No. Why? Did something happen between you guys?"

"Yes. No. Ask a question that isn't so complicated, okay?"

"Okay? How about where's my mom if she's not with you?"

"I don't know. Are you sure she didn't come back? Maybe she went right to her room."

"No. She would have said something," he insists with a deepening frown. "Even when she's upset, she doesn't ignore me; she's not here, Emma."

"She has to be." She moves past him, and heads down the hallway. When she gets to Regina's room, she shoves the door open, and looks inside, immediately realizing that it's empty. The bed is made, and the closet is closed and everything is neat and tidy.

Regina, however, isn't anywhere to be seen.

She strides back down the hallway, and makes her way to the front porch. The car is still parked in the driveway, but it only takes her a moment to notice that the sneakers, which are usually settled by the mat in front of the door, have been removed. Which means that Regina is on the move.

"Fuck," Emma says again, this time louder and with more passion.

"Emma?" Henry asks, moving to stand beside her. "Is my mom out there by herself? She's not ready!" The words sound ridiculous, because Regina isn't someone who can't take care of herself, and yet there's a cold truth in the fact that right now she's not ready to deal with people on her own; she's been split open emotionally as of late, and if you add on whatever emotion she's feeling after what had occurred on the beach, well God only knows what trouble she could get into with her temper.

"I know, kid, but I'll find her, okay? Don't worry; finding people is what I do." She puts her hands on each of his shoulders. "Hey, don't worry," she repeats. "I'm not going to let anything happen to her. You know I won't."

"I know. Wait, where are you going?"

"Up the beach, into to town, I don't know yet," she admits as she laces up her own shoes, and grabs for her car keys.

"What do I do?" he pushes.

"Stay by the phone. If she comes back, call me immediately.

"What happened?" he asks, because for an eleven-year-old boy, that really is what matters most. He needs to understand even if he never could.

"I screwed up," Emma admits. "But I'm going to make this right; I promise."

And with that, she turns and leaves, shutting the door behind her.

All the while praying that she hasn't cost all of them everything.

**TBC…**


	15. 12

A/N: As always, my deepest appreciation for all of the kind words expressed.

Content warnings: Emotional truth, salty language, abundant alcohol use, Henry being a unrelenting smartass and some Evil Queen badassery.

Trigger warnings: Attempted and actual assault.

**Enjoy!**

* * *

His eyebrow lifts up and he smirks at her in a way that vaguely makes her skin crawl with anxiety. Not because he's a threat or because he's showing any intention of trying anything, but because his careless attempts at flirting just remind her of the horrendous mess – of her own creation – that she'd just fled.

"I'm going to need to see an identification card, love," the bartender drawls as he leans across the counter. He adds on a grin that's meant to be charming, and she wonders if this routine actually ever works for him. Or maybe, this is just his typical shtick; she's hardly what anyone would call a regular at the Rabbit Hole, and even if she had been, no one would have dared to flirt with her, anyway.

Even before the people of Storybrooke had known her to be the Evil Queen, she'd been the Ice Queen Mayor; the one that could control people with her eyes and her words; the one who never failed to get what she wanted. And while that had been good for her as far as maintaining power and control, it'd been horrific in regards to building relationships.

Then again, she'd always convinced herself that she'd never really wanted any of those anyway. Why would a Queen or a Mayor ever need a friend?

"I don't have one," Regina replies. "But I'm quite clearly over twenty-one."

"Are you now?"

She quickly comes up with two – no, three – different ways to insult him and his manhood, but a part of her mind suggests a different course of action; be the Mayor, it tells her in that somewhat gentle placating tone. Friendless and cold, but good at getting what she wants in typically nonviolent ways.

She smiles at him, and perhaps it's because he doesn't know her that he doesn't recognize the fakeness of the too-wide, too-bright expression. "Oh, yes, dear, I very much am, and I know I don't have my ID on me, but it's been a very long day, and all I want is a glass of wine to help me unwind."

His look says that though she intrigues him, he's not going to give in. That is until Kimberly – the pretty waitress from earlier in the day; apparently working a double shift – wanders behind him and whispers something into his ear, grinning at him before clapping his shoulder and walking away.

Regina lifts an eyebrow. "Is there a problem?"

"Not at all. My girl was just telling me that you were in earlier."

"Your…girl is quite right," Regina nods, though she's guessing that Kimberly told him something else as well because the bartender – she finally notices that his nametag says Bobby - is no longer flirting with her. He's far from rude, but he seems to be consciously trying not to annoy her now. His smiles are polite and casually friendly instead of charming. Or what he'd considered charming, anyway.

"So what can I get you?"

"Your very best red would be lovely."

"You want a tab?"

She thinks for a moment – remembering the fact that not only does she not have an identification card on her, but she's also lacking a wallet – and shakes her head in the negative. "Probably best to keep it at just one."

"On it," he says before turning around to go for the wine bottles.

Her eyes track around the bar. It looks so different at night. Where as earlier that day, when she'd been here with Henry and Emma, it'd been cozy and quite family orientated, now it's loud and rowdy. The pool tables are completely surrounded, and there are pitchers of beer everywhere.

A normal night around here, she imagines.

A good place to hide and think, she hopes.

Because she has to figure out just what the hell she'd been thinking. Kissing Emma, well that had quite clearly been a huge mistake, she knows. She'd let her emotions get the best of her, and she'd done something absolutely inexplicable.

Story of her life, she thinks bitterly, unable to stop her lips from curling into a sneer for just a quick moment before she manages to get her facial expressions back under control again. Her life and it's subsequent unraveling have always been about her emotions cutting her to the quick, and leaving her exposed and bleeding out.

"Here," Bobby the bartender says, placing a wine glass on the table. "On the house." He nods at her. "On account of the fact that you clearly have no cash on you, and something tells me you're not much for dishes."

She laughs, and it actually feels nice to be having such an empty and light conversation. "I'll have you know that I'm quite good at dishes."

"You ever washed them in the kind of hard soap and water that we use here?" he counters, glancing down at her elegant hands, but thankfully making no attempt to try to touch her. "Because I'm guessing no."

"No, probably not," she admits. She looks at the glass and offers him another smile. In days long gone, she wouldn't have bothered with gratitude to the serving class even if doing so would have represented good manners. Per her mother, they'd been beneath her, and it had simply been their duty. This world isn't like that one, though, and she doesn't want to be that woman anymore even if she's doomed to always be her anyway. "Thank you," she says softly. "For the…for the kindness." These are difficult words for her – not only to say, but to believe – but she pushes them out just the same.

"Certainly. And you know; bartenders have good ears."

"Of that, I'm certain," she smiles. "But in this case, I just need to think."

"Then my suggestion is to grab the booth in the corner over there. Not the quietest spot, but it's the one the most away from the crazy. Just stay clear of Bo. He's harmless until he's had four or five beers, but he's never less than a dumbshit." He points over to a well-muscled man bent over the pool table. He's in jeans and a red and black flannel shirt, and in the three seconds that Regina watches him, she sees him laugh loudly twice, and slap one of his buddies on the back with enough force to knock him out.

"So noted," Regina says, taking a sip of the wine. It's a great deal better than the spirits that Emma has been bringing back from the grocery store, and it takes everything she has not to sigh in relief at the taste. She offers one more smile, and then makes her way over to the corner booth.

Bobby is right; the booth is off to the side enough that while it's certainly not hidden, it's not in the direct sight-lines of the loudmouths playing pool, either.

She drops herself down into the seat, brushes crumbs off the table, and then affixes her eyes to the wall opposite her. Her hand moves automatically, bringing the wine to her lips time and time again. Her mind whirls as she thinks back to the kiss that she'd shared with Emma.

She'd tasted like light beer, lime Gatorade and cherry chapstick. And salt.

It shouldn't have happened, but over time, Regina has learned the value of regrets; that is to say simply that there is none. Which, of course, doesn't mean that she isn't plagued with them every minute of every day.

The dreams have made those regrets more constant as of late. They gnaw at her skin and at her mind, and she sees images and flashes of her horrific past in full color; the people she's hurt and the things that she's done, and now can never truly escape from. The person that she is and as Emma had once said, will always be no matter whom else she might wish to be.

That, she tells herself, is why Emma had pulled away.

Why wouldn't she have?

She brings the glass to her lips, and practically inhales the next sip, allowing the vibrant spicy taste to wash over her. She closes her eyes and tries to focus on flavor all the while pleading with herself not to cry.

There's been more than enough of that.

And she is so damned tired of always feeling like there will be more to come. She knows what she's done now, and she'll likely know even more tomorrow, she thinks, but for one night, is it too much to ask to not have to deal with the hurt and the tears and the feeling like everything is caving in?

Is it too much to ask for everything just be quiet and painless for one night?

Her jaw hardens in frustration, and her hand tightens angrily around the wine glass, for a moment just about hard enough to shatter it. It's only the sight – once she opens her eyes again – of her intensely white knuckles that makes her release her hold and blow out a gust of cool air.

There's a reason that she'd blocked out all of the bad and horrible things that she's both experienced and caused for so long; she's not equipped to handle these kinds of emotions and feelings. She doesn't know how to navigate pain in any way that isn't both outwardly and inwardly destructive.

Worse than that, though, is the bitter understanding that she doesn't know how to deal with rejection and humiliation, and the absolute soul-rending knowledge that she's not good enough and never will be.

But she wants to be.

The question is – and likely will always be – is that even possible?

The more her mind treks back to the beach, and to the shocked look of horror that she'd seen on Emma's face, the more that she thinks no. And the more she thinks no, the more she thinks that she just need to accept that some doors aren't open to her anymore, and perhaps that's as it should be; perhaps they shouldn't be, anyway.

It's not just about Emma, she tells herself, and it isn't.

Her thoughts about the blonde sheriff are tangled and confused and uncertain, and while Regina has always struggled to break good and bad emotion apart, even she knows that the complicated feelings that are racing through her blood and heart right now are far more than platonic.

Still, the corrosive and greedy darkness that's beginning to steal it's way across her soul once more, it's about more than just rejection from Emma.

It's about rejection period.

She looks around the bar, her eyes settling on Bo. He's an absolute brute, and there's nothing at all attractive about the man, and yet people are around him. Some are clinging to him because he's the big man, but others seem like they want to soak up his energy. They want to be near him.

Bobby the bartender had called Bo a dumbass, and yet even he is managing to find those who would choose to be around him of their own free will, and not simply because they're trying to keep him from murdering someone that they care about. Or because they're trying to save him from himself

She cocks her head as she continues to watch Bo. She's fairly certain that though he wouldn't reject physically (for all of her self-doubts and all of her self-loathing, the one thing she knows for sure is that she is externally, at least, a beautiful woman), probably even he would be horrified by the truth of who she really is. She's pretty damned sure that anyone would be.

Even Emma Swan.

There's a line between helping someone and being more than that to someone, and Emma had drawn it into the actual sand tonight. Not that she can really blame Emma for that. First, she was most likely surprised by the kiss and second, she was clearly quite disgusted by who it was kissing her.

Or maybe she wasn't surprised or disgusted. And maybe this is all just the part of her that is so very used to being hurt waiting for the next round of it to come out at her like a ravenously hungry tiger leaping into an arena.

Then, of course, there's the question of where the sudden romantic feelings for Emma had come from. Have they always been there to some degree or another? What are they about and why are they surfacing now? Why had she felt so damned compelled to be as close to Emma in that moment as she could? And what the hell had she been expecting to happen?

What had she wanted to happen? What had she wanted Emma to do?

The realization that she doesn't have answers to these rather frightening questions hits her hard, and for a moment, Regina struggles to breath around the icy grip of all of the cold and decidedly negative and painful emotions that are flooding through her heart and soul.

She takes another breath and another sip, and realizes that yes, she's going to have to find a way to open a tab tonight because thoughts like these, well she's certainly no stranger to them, but at least back in Storybrooke, she'd had her full cellar and her apple cider available to her. Tonight, one glass of red wine just isn't going to cut it. Alcohol makes her strong and angry and while that might be dangerous with magic, it's harmless out here.

She wants to be a better person, a person worthy of love, but she also wants to be strong and sometimes the only way to be that is to be angry.

Anger has destroyed her, but it has also kept her on her feet when everything in her life has been hell-bent on driving her to her knees.

The worst of friends and the best of allies.

She lifts her hand up and waves to Kimberly. Flashes the pretty waitress what she hopes is a dazzling smile, and asks for something stronger.

She'll worry about how to pay for it all later; for now, she's going to just forget everything. Forget and let the anger take her away from the pain.

* * *

Emma finds that she's almost ridiculously glad that it's a fairly cool night, because she's been walking around for the last hour, getting more and more frustrated with each passing minute. Even with the chill of the crisp Maine air, she's sweating through the thin fabric of her hoodie.

Which is perfect. Just fucking perfect.

Add to that the fact that her vocabulary is starting to devolve into little more than creative curses and angry grunts of irritation as place after place that she looks for the sure to be angry and hurt former queen comes up empty, and she knows that this night is quickly becoming a rather impressively epic clusterfuck. The kind that she specializes in.

She feels a buzz in her pocket and quickly yanks her phone out, her green eyes lighting up when she recognizes the number as the beach house line.

"Henry," she breathes. "Is she back?" She can hear the desperate hope in her voice, and yeah, it's a little bit pathetic, but she doesn't even really try to hide it because she thinks if anyone might understand the need to find Regina as soon as possible, it's Henry. He might not know the all of it – he certainly doesn't know about the kiss – but he knows that his adoptive mother missing in action and clearly upset is almost always a bad thing.

"No; I was calling to ask if you'd found her yet."

She blows out air. "Not yet."

"Okay," he says quite reasonably. "Where have you checked?"

She considers reminding him that she knows what she's doing, and doesn't actually need his help to find his mother, but instead of getting into it with him (which if he's anything like Regina – and he's actually a lot like her – will just lead to more arguing) she decides to just answer, "The beach."

"And?"

"Your fort."

There's a pause before he speaks, and she can pretty much perfectly visualize the way he wrinkles his nose in annoyance at her words. "Did you really think she'd be sitting in the middle of it? It's not finished yet."

"Hey, kid, how about a little bit less mockery, okay? I was trying to think of places she might know. That one made sense to me."

"Sorry. Fine. She's not there. Where else?"

"I'm making my way down Main Street," Emma responds, scuffing the tip of her shoe against the cement of the curb she's standing on. She scratches idly at a dark stain she sees there, and finally stops when the intelligent part of her brain kicks in enough to tell her that no matter what she does to remove the mark, it isn't going anywhere; it's been there too long and –

Jesus, the fucking metaphors.

"Have you tried the bar we went to for lunch today?" he asks.

She scowls, and just does stop herself from kicking the cement again – this time in complete irritation at his perfectly reasonably suggestion. "No."

"Em-ma."

"Hey," she protests weakly because really, what else is there to say?

"You find people," he reminds her with an impatient sigh, and she wonders why the hell she's having this conversation with her son. Right before she wonders why she didn't think of the bar first. Because he's right: finding people is what she does, and the way she does it is by thinking about who they are and what they would do in times of desperation and fear.

So why hadn't she done that with Regina?

Simply stopping for a moment and thinking would have told her to retrace the steps of the town that Regina might have known well enough to go to assuming she hadn't tried to depart – which considering Henry is still back at the house – Emma's fairly certain isn't the case here. So logically thinking, the grocery store and the phone shop wouldn't have made much sense, which would have left checking out the bar where they'd had lunch as a…

As a family.

Right.

She runs her fingers through her hair, feeling the dampness of mist between the blonde strands. It's all so goddamned confusing right now.

She kicks at the stain again.

Sometimes, metaphors help you understand things that you might not have otherwise; sometimes they shine light on difficult situations.

And sometimes, conveniently handy metaphors are just meaningless and trite words meant to help you separate yourself from the emotions and feelings and thoughts that maybe you shouldn't be having.

She wonders, then – with more than a slight degree of self-disgust - if maybe she's been intentionally/unintentionally stalling for the last hour.

She wonders if this has all been about trying to collect her thoughts, trying to figure out how to explain why she'd pulled away to Regina without hurting her or destroying all that progress that they've make together as…

Together as what?

Yeah, that's probably why she's stalling, she thinks. Because she has no idea what she feels or is supposed to be feeling or…or well, anything. She knows herself well enough to know that it hadn't been surprise that had made her respond to the kiss, but she also has the part of her that is reminding her of all the things she'd promised Regina, and all the things Regina needs in order to heal. Romantic complications of any nature fail to qualify.

Romantic complications? What?

She'd growl if it wouldn't look so insane and unhinged.

"Emma?" Henry prompts, and it occurs to her that she hasn't said a word in several…seconds? Minutes? Either way, she'd checked out of the call.

"I'm here," she sighs. "And yeah, the bar is a good idea."

"You're worried," he notes. "Do you think she's doing something bad?"

She almost laughs, once again reminded of how very simple Henry's moral code is. Things are so clean for him: black and white, right and wrong, good and bad. He has no concept of gray, and though he loves his mother, his lack of understanding about the gaps between absolutes always seems to bring him back to those absolutes.

"No," she assures him. "I'm just…I'm worried that she's hurting."

"Because you…screwed up."

"It's complicated."

She can almost _hear_ his scowl.

"I know, I know," she laughs. "Look, just stay by the phone, and I'll be in touch as soon as I find her, okay?"

"Fine. You have ten minutes."

"Seriously?"

"She's my mom, Emma; she doesn't handle being hurt well. I would think you more than anyone would know that. Remember? She cursed a whole world because she was upset. You have nine and a half minutes now."

"Yeah, I remember, and I'm fairly certain that you just gypped me fifteen seconds." She almost adds on the endearment, "you little shit" but manages to stop because she's pretty damned sure that Henry's never been called that before – even as affectionately as she might have meant it to be.

"Fine," he lobs back. _Now_ you have nine and a half minutes."

"Out of curiosity, what happens after the ten minutes are over?"

"We could be in Iowa."

"Iowa; right. Bye." She hangs up and shakes her head in amusement; the kid certainly has a vivid imagination and an odd sense of humor. Her eyes track up the road towards the bar. Somehow, she just knows Regina is there.

Because, yes, Regina is a wildcard with extreme predictably issues, but she's also far from home, and likely looking for something to anchor onto right now. The bar isn't much of anything, but it is the one familiar in Haydenport.

And the afternoon spent there? Well it's surely a good memory for her.

"And for me," Emma mutters.

She claps her hands together like she's readying herself for battle, shrugs her shoulders like she's a drifter without a care in the world, and then starts down the street, each step becoming longer and faster than the previous.

She has no idea what she's going to say or how she's going to even begin to explain herself to Regina, but she knows that she needs to try. They've come too far – yes, together - over the last few weeks not to at least try to figure out where they are and how to get through it.

For better or for worse, whatever this is, what she'd said to Regina back on the beach – though then about making decisions in regards to Henry and Neal – about them being in this together, is absolutely accurate.

And what she'd said to Henry back at the house a few minutes later about making this right, well that's accurate, too, she thinks as her pale lips set into a thin line of determination. Now, she muses as she reaches the door of the quite busy and extremely loud bar, now she just needs the right words.

Because words have always come so easily for her.

She laughs to herself as she pushes the door to the bar open, and wonders how it is that she always ends up in fucked up situations like this one.

* * *

By the time she's on her fourth tumbler of whiskey, the anger has melted away to morose brooding, which frankly just pisses her off all the more.

She'd been counting on the tightening of her muscles and the hardening of her heart to get her through tonight, but instead, she's thinking about the people she's loved and lost. Instead, she's thinking about her mother.

Who is the very last person in the world that Regina wants to think about right now; if only because there are so very many landmines lurking out that way. So very many ugly and jagged rocks just waiting to be turned over only to expose pain that runs far too deep to ever be truly eradicated.

And yet, as the last swallow of alcohol sears its way down her throat, Cora is the only person on her mind.

_You would have been enough._

It's a great thought, she thinks, but would it have been the truth? If Snow White had given her a heart free of poison to place back into her mother, would Cora have been a good soul dedicated to ensuring her daughters' happiness or would she still have wanted power and control?

Would she still have –

Regina growls; this is madness, and worse than that, it's an insult to the dead. Cora can't defend herself anymore, and even if she could, she'd still be Mother. She'd still been the one person willing to cross multiple worlds to convince her daughter of her love for her. Wasn't that enough?

No, something deep inside of her rumbles, because that's not love. That's something else and hasn't enough blood been spilled because of it?

"You're running up quite the tab," she hears from above her, the voice low and familiar in a way that causes everything inside of her to speed up.

She blinks and looks up, seeing Emma standing above her, a small smile playing across pale lips even as frustration and irritation shines in her eyes.

"Miss Swan," Regina smirks. "So very nice to see you, dear."

"And we're back to that. You know what? Because you're clearly drunk, and it's been a hell of a night, I'm going to let you get away with that."

Regina snorts in disgust. "I don't need anything from you."

It's not the words that make Emma's head snap backwards – she'd expected them, to be honest – it's the vehemence she hears. The disgust. Like Regina is absolutely beside herself at the idea of what she'd done. And with whom.

Well, fine, then.

"Actually," Emma counters. "You need me to pay your bill." She gestures back across the bar, to where Kimberly is standing over a table, talking to the two men there. "She told me that you promised her that 'your Emma' would handle it. She's under the impression that we're having a fight."

"Aren't we always?" Regina replies, lifting an eyebrow in a way that's supposed to come off as haughty, but mostly just looks lazy and tired.

"Sometimes," Emma admits. "But I don't think this was a fight, and I didn't know I was 'your Emma'." She's using the lightest tone she has, trying to tease Regina out of the funk that she's currently in, but the former queen isn't budging. Her fingers are curled tightly around her mostly empty glass, and Emma finds herself quite certain of the fact that had Regina magic right now, many an object in this bar would be flying around it.

Her eyes are turbulent, angry and sad.

And Emma just wants the right words to make this all better.

"You're not my anything," Regina snaps back, lifting the glass to her lips and draining out the last three amber drops of alcohol.

"Right. Got it," Emma mumbles before she sits down in the chair opposite Regina, and then places her fumbling hands into her pocket of her hoodie.

"I didn't say you could sit," Regina reminds her in her petulant tone.

"Yeah, well, I didn't say you could make me pay for your night of drinking, but here we are," Emma shoots back. She lifts her hand up, and grabs at the empty glass before Regina can try to find anything else at the bottom.

It's a bit funny to her; she'd spent her first year in Storybrooke wanting to bring Regina to her knees, wanting to humble her and make her act like a human being capable of showing weakness and vulnerability. Now that she sees it, though, she wants to cut it off at the knees. Not because she doesn't want to see the honest side of Regina, but because she knows that this isn't that side. This is hurt and more walls, and there's nothing good that can come of watching Regina humiliate herself by getting herself shitfaced.

"Why are you here, Miss Swan?"

"Because I thought we should talk."

"About what?"

"Really? About what? Are you serious?"

"Deadly. I'm always deadly serious." She grins then, and yeah, it's a bit unsettling because there's a cold cruelty gleaming in her eyes, but there's also enough slackness in her jaw to offset it and just make her look sad.

"Then I guess it's a good thing that one of us actually has a sense of humor, Your Majesty," Emma lobs back. "Because I'll be damned if I'm going to let what happened on the beach ruin everything that we'll built."

"Which is what exactly, dear?" Regina hisses out, leaning forward close enough for Emma to get a warm brush of her alcohol spiced breath.

"I honestly don't know, Regina," Emma answers softly, refusing to move back and allow herself to be pushed away. "But it is something, and we've worked too damn hard to let it go because we're both…confused."

"Confused? Is that what we are? Interesting."

"You kissed me," Emma notes, picking at her nails even as she tries to maintain eye contact with Regina. It's a fruitless endeavor, unfortunately, because the former queen is too jittery and too anxious to stay steady enough for such. Emma tries just the same, though.

"And you pulled away," Regina reminds her. "Like you'd been slapped."

"I think we're remembering things a bit differently," Emma states.

"Well that's hardly new," come the dour response.

"Right. Look, here's the thing: you're drunk. Very drunk, and I don't think this is either the place or the time for this conversation. So why don't we head back to the house and –"

"And what? Pretend like I didn't just make an ass of myself?"

"You didn't, Regina; I did."

The brunette shakes her head. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about…look, I really don't want to do this here, okay? If we can get out of here and get to somewhere quiet, I promise I'll try to explain."

"Fine. Lead on, Sheriff." The words are practically spat out.

Emma nods her head, choosing to - for the moment - ignore the derisive anger she hears in Regina's words. Half of that is alcohol related and the other half, well that's what they're going to go talk about. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out her wallet, extracting several twenties (she's suddenly quite glad that she'd pulled some money out at the ATM earlier in the afternoon) and places them on the table next to the empty glass tumblers. "Ready?"

"Are you going to help me to my feet, too?" Regina drawls.

"Only if you want me to."

"I don't need it."

"Has anyone ever told you that you're a belligerent drunk?"

"Has anyone ever told you that it's not nice to antagonize an Evil Queen?"

"Yes, but I'd think by now you'd remember just how good I am at listening to people when they tell me what to do."

"We wouldn't be here if you were," Regina snaps back. "All you had to do was listen when I told you leave and never return."

"And if I had, you'd still be trapped inside your curse," Emma counters.

"At least I wouldn't be here."

"Here with me or here in there?" she points to Regina's head.

The brunette, for her part, simply rolls her eyes in response to a question that she appears to deem too deep for her rapidly fogging over mind.

She stands up, a hand out to keep Emma for reaching for her, and then pushing her head up to an almost impossibly sharp angle, walks towards the door leading to the back alley of the bar. Her gait is awkward and clumsy, and right now she couldn't look less like Regina Mills if she tried.

Emma finds that she kind of hates that.

It's weird, she thinks with a bit of an inward chuckle, how much she's actually come to like and enjoy the headstrong, sardonic, hot-headed and vaguely bitchy woman that she's spent the last six weeks living with.

What she's seeing right now isn't any of those things.

This is a broken hearted woman who has already been cut open now finding herself being laid emotionally bare in a way that can do her no good.

This is hurt and sadness and the fear that nothing she does will ever matter anyway. This is the truth of who Regina Mills is beneath all of the titles.

Her jaw set, Emma's about to follow after Regina when Kimberly saddles up beside her. "You left too much," she says, glancing down at the twenties.

"Maybe, but I appreciate you keeping an eye on her."

"Sure. She looks like a difficult one."

"You have no idea."

"Mm," Kimberly smiles. "Be careful, honey. It's always the difficult ones who turn you upside down and inside out. Even if it's worth it."

"Yeah, I know. Thanks again."

"I hope to see you guys again soon. Especially if you leave tips like that."

Emma laughs and nods her head, then follows after Regina who has just exited into the alley, a hand extended out to brace herself.

It's three seconds after she's come up behind where Regina should be that she hears the sound of violent retching, and knows that the walk, the cool air and the abundant alcohol are finally catching up with the former queen.

As all things eventually do.

She considers announcing her presence to Regina, but she's fairly certain that even drunk, the former queen knows when she's around. It's not about the emotions that had sparked the kiss, but rather the weird string of fate and destiny and kismet that just seems to hang between the two of them.

She steps behind Regina and after only the briefest moment of hesitation, Emma reaches out and wraps her arms around the older woman's torso. The touch is light and not meant to constrict her in any way. It's there to offer comfort and support, and to let her know that she's not alone.

Thankfully, for once in her life, Regina doesn't resist. For once, she just allows someone to be there for her. Emma sees the way her head bows, and for a moment, she thinks that maybe Regina is crying, but then she hears the soft breaths, the ones meant to help her regain control of herself.

"It's okay," Emma whispers, stopping herself from holding Regina tighter when really, that's all she wants to do right now. "It's okay."

"Now, this is cute."

Emma doesn't bother hiding the growl of frustration that she emits as she lets go of Regina and turns around. She sees the big dude she'd noticed when she'd come into the bar – the guy in the red and black flannel shirt.

"Lovely ladies," he grins. "Ain't they?" he nods to two of his very drunk buddies, both of them who are wearing matching stupid expressions.

Several different thoughts go through Emma's mind – various threats and promises – but finally, realizing that Regina isn't exactly the kind of wingman that she'd need for a fight like this, "Guy, I'm a cop. Don't do this."

"You're a cop," the guy in flannel laughs. "I like cops."

"Oh, of course you do. Look, here's the thing: my friend isn't feeling well, and I need to get her home so why don't we just smile at each other real nicely and we'll go that way, and you'll go –"

She doesn't even get the sentence out before he's moving towards her.

"Fuck," she growls as he pushes her into the hard wall of the alley. "Are you seriously this much of a fucking idiot?"

"Yes, I am," he breathes, the smell of beer and nachos assaulting her. "But I should let you know that I really don't like being called it."

"Then stop being it because if you don't let me go, I will rip something vital off of you and shove it down your goddamned throat," she growls out.

"Oh yeah? And while you're doing that, how are you going to protect your girlfriend?" he chuckles, grabbing her by the hair so that she can see the way that his buddies have started moving in on Regina.

These guys truly are idiots, she muses, because they're reading Regina's posture right now all kinds of wrong. She's bent a bit still, a hand on her knee, and she looks unsteady on her feet, but her eyes have hardened.

She's angry and getting angrier.

And Jesus, normally that's scary as fuck, but right now maybe it's a good thing. She just needs a little space to work with, Emma thinks. Just a little and they can make their way back into the bar and then out to the front of.

Alleys are always bad things, she muses. No wonder there are so many crap movies made about shitty things happening in them.

"I don't need to protect her," Emma states, hoping like hell that she's right.

"Really?" he laughs as he leans in towards her neck. "She looks so small."

"I might look small, you inconsequential Neanderthal, but you're still no match for me," Regina growls out. She's standing completely opposite Emma and Bo, separated by his buddies, but she's paying them absolutely no attention, her eyes locked on the man who is pinning Emma down.

"Really? No match for you?"

For the second time tonight, Emma knows what's coming before it happens. She's almost smiling when Regina rumbles out in a low throaty voice that just about makes her shiver, "You have no idea what I'm capable of."

"Oh now I get it," he chuckles. "I was trying to figure out what a broad –"

"I wouldn't finish that sentence if I were you," Emma says, inching her knee up towards his crotch. Normally, had it been just she and Bo, she would have taken him out by now, but with his buddies and Regina in the picture, things have to be timed and planned better. She needs to ensure that once Bo hits the deck, she can grab Regina and get them inside quickly.

"Listen to her," Regina says, standing up fully, head high. The only obvious signs of her intoxication remain in her eyes and the ever so slight wobble of her chin. Otherwise, she looks strong and in control.

She looks furious.

"Release her now," the Queen demands, and yes, at this moment that's exactly who Emma is seeing. She might not have her hair up on her head or her breasts lifted to her eyeballs like in the pictures, but there's a cold menace in her posture. There's command in her stance and tone.

"Whatever, bitch," he laughs, and then slams Emma against the wall again.

And that's just about enough. Emma's knee jerks up and into Bo's crotch with enough violent force to make him scream and tumble to the ground.

"Regina," she calls out, hand out to her.

It almost works, too.

Almost.

But Regina is just sluggish enough to be slow to respond, and in that moment, one of Bo's buddies is on her. With an angry yell and a crude profanity, he slams her to the wall. "Stay," he growls out, a rough hand pressing against her hip to keep her in place.

She yells out in fear as a hundred different memories crash down upon her. She makes an almost inhuman sound – like wailing and screaming and crying all at once, and in that moment, Emma knows that wherever Regina is – and it's not here in the now – it's a very dark and painful place indeed.

A place that explains her fear of restraints.

And place that elaborates on her need for absolute control.

"Get off of me," Regina demands, her voice shaking. She's fighting, struggling, pushing against him, her nails sinking into his arms, and he's looking at her like he thinks she's gone completely mad. "Get off!"

"Knock it off," he orders.

She doesn't seem to hear him; just keeps struggling, and keeps fighting.

Until he slaps her across the face and she just goes down. He's atop her almost immediately, once again pinning her.

Emma calls out for her, desperately trying to get to her. Unfortunately for the both of them, one of the other men has her now and he has her in a tight chokehold, his thick forearm pressed up against her throat.

And then everything starts to shake. The light bulbs on the alley explode, glass flying everywhere, shards of it cutting through available skin.

"Earthquake," the man holding Emma calls out as he lets go of her.

But Emma's watching Regina's eyes and she sees it – the dim purple swirling there, light and hazy but there just the same – and knows that what's happening now has absolutely nothing to do with Mother Nature.

Thankfully, Bo and his idiots don't know that. His boys lift Bo up from the ground and they run off like the cowards that they are.

The shaking continues, and another light somewhere else down the alley explodes. Pushing away from the wall, Emma approaches Regina slowly, her hands extended outwards. "Hey," she whispers. "You need to stop."

"Stop?"

"Stop. Stop doing that," Emma says, reaching out to very lightly touch Regina, and hopefully anchor her to the here and now.

It works because a moment later, the fierce shaking stops, and Regina looks up at her, her intensely dark eyes wide and panicked.

"You can do magic," Emma breathes, her eyes equally wide.

"I…" Regina trails off, unsure of what else to say. Emma's right, of course; she had most certainly just used magic. How, she no clue, but she knows the touch of magic too well to dispute it. She knows exactly what it feels like when it's turned on thanks to her fear and anger.

And that had been like a switch being thrown.

The memories had swept through her suddenly, bitterly, and then she'd felt warmth within her blood and coldness across her skin.

When the idiot had struck her - thankfully not flush enough to leave a mark - she'd felt magic swimming through her, and then exploding out of her.

And if she has any doubts as to that, the glass shattered everywhere throughout the alley is enough to tell the tale.

"We need to get out of here," Emma says suddenly, reaching for her arm, and grasping her fingers around the soft skin there. She gives Regina a hard tug, and pulls her to her feet. "What you did was probably felt inside, too; I'm sure there will be cops on the way, and well…we shouldn't be here."

Regina simply nods her head in agreement, too stunned to protest.

* * *

They're about a hundred yards away from Henry's wood fort when Emma finally stops walking, and begins pacing back and forth instead.

"Did you know?" she demands finally as she snaps around to face Regina, her hands settled anxiously on her hips, her elbows at sharp angles. Her tone is shaky, but hard, and she looks like she's about to either scream or cry. "Have you always been able to use it?"

Regina takes a step forward, her gait unsteady and far more aggressive than she might have chosen to use towards Emma had she been sober. "No. I didn't…do you think I would…no, I didn't know. Don't you think if I could that I would have during the first few days that we were here?"

"Okay, fine. But what about the boundary line? Blue told me that once we crossed over it, all of the magic would be gone. It was gone when I went across with Gold a few months ago. I don't understand."

"You think I do?" Regina queries, sounding so terribly sad and scared. "I thought I was free of this, but every time I try to be…" she trails off, her eyes closing as she blinks back tears. "Believe it or not, I don't want it."

"Well, what do you want, Regina?" Emma snaps out suddenly, taking a quick hard step towards the former queen. "Because that's something I've never been able to figure out about you. What _do_ you want?"

"In general or from you?" Regina counters, her dark turbulent eyes fixing on Emma's. That the former queen is still slightly inebriated seems to be a non-issue at this point, because she's fully aware right now. Tired, but aware.

Emma's head pulls back, and suddenly, all of the anger leaves her body.

Suddenly, she's not facing off against an Evil Queen who might have been lying to her or fooling her – again – but rather against a woman who seems like she's running on the very last of her mental fumes. "Either."

"In general? I want the same thing you do, Emma. I want happiness. I want something that doesn't feel like it hurts every moment of every day. I want a morning when I can wake up and not want to go back to bed. I want a child who loves me in spite of the monster that I am. And you know what? I want to not see red in front of my eyes before I see sunlight. That's what I want."

"And from me? What do you want from _me_?"

"I don't want a savior," Regina says softly, shaking her head, her hair for a moment sliding in front of her eyes. "I know that's what you think you are to me, but that's not what I want or need. Maybe when this whole thing started, that's what I needed, but now…now maybe I need something else."

"Yeah? What's that?" Emma challenges, feeling her chest tighten up as the words leave her mouth. She can still quite vividly recall the soft kiss they'd shared on the beach, and though she also remembers very much enjoying it for the three seconds that it had lasted before she'd pulled away, she finds herself worried that Regina is about to ask for something more in that vein - something that she's not sure that she'll be able to give her.

That's she's still not sure how she feels about that is something that she chooses not to dwell on for now. The same reasons that she'd pulled away from the kiss before still hold true now. Whatever emotions might or might not exist between, building on an unsteady foundation isn't the way to go, and right now, she's not sure if they could be more unsteady if they tried.

"I need a friend, Emma," comes the soft reply, the whispered words almost inaudible. A slight sniffle accompanies them, and then a gruff hand is wiped past Regina's eyes as if to push tears away. "That's what I want, too."

"A friend," the sheriff breathes, turning the surprising word over in her mind. She'd honestly been expecting something far more physical, and yet this request – so very simple - seems so much bigger, so much more intense.

And for now at least, so much more important, too.

"Believe it or not, I've only ever had two." She smiles sadly at this before adding, "Maybe I don't deserve friendship from you after all the things I've done, but, well, you asked me what I want and what I need, and there it is."

"I can be that," Emma assures her.

Regina smiles once more, this one more full, and Emma finds herself reminded of the moments on the beach that had led to the kiss.

A beautiful smile just like this one.

And then equally beautiful words expressed between the two of them.

A shame, then, that that had gone pear-shaped so damn quickly.

"Regina, look, I need you to know that I didn't pull back from what happened on the beach because I was…because I was…" She frowns trying to come up with the words to explain why she had done what she had done, and to not hurt Regina more at the same time.

"Disgusted?" the former queen offers.

"No! I wasn't disgusted," Emma tells her. "Far from it. I just…you deserve better." She shrugs her shoulders awkwardly.

Regina laughs. "I deserve better, dear? Have you forgotten who I am? There are many who would argue that I no longer have a right to love at all."

"Yeah, well, many people are idiots; doesn't make them right."

"Be that as it may, it's absurd to think that _you_ are not worthy of _me_."

"Maybe, but that's not really what I meant anyway. What I meant was, we're here because the both of us are pretty fucked up. You were right when you said I have issues to work on, too. And believe it or not, you've been helping me as much…well, I don't want to lose that because of whatever attraction might exist between us. I'm not the smartest about relationships – I never have been – but I know that some things are more important, and what you said about needing a friend? I need one, too."

Regina nods her head slowly. A part of her wants to rewind back to the comment about there being an attraction between the two of them, but even in her alcoholic haze, she recognizes Emma's words for what they are.

Not rejection, not a promise either, but for once not the absence of hope.

For once, someone is trying to be there for her in a way that isn't purely self-serving. Yes, helping her saves Emma's mothers life, but there's no reason to be extending friendship if that's all this is.

And it's not all it is; it hasn't been such for many weeks now.

"Are you okay?" Emma asks after a moment of thoughtful silence breathes between the two of them. "That moron in the alley got you pretty good."

"Not as good as he thought he did," Regina answers. "And yes; I'm fine."

"No bruise," Emma notes."If that'd been me, I'd look like I'd gone fifteen rounds with Tyson."

"I have good skin," Regina simply.

"Well, I'm glad."

They share a soft slightly awkward smile, and then Emma reaches into her pocket and pulls out her cell.

"Oh, I should probably call Henry. He's been buzzing my phone every thirty seconds for the last ten minutes."

"He doesn't like to be ignored."

"Yeah, so I've gathered. You want to head back up to the house or…"

"I think I need to know."

"Know?"

Regina holds up her hands, palms out. "I used magic back there in that alley, yes, but it was extremely weak. Making things shake is first day skills. I need to know if there's more inside of me than that." She looks up at Emma. "I don't deserve it, but I need you to trust me when I tell you that I have no actual desire to use it, but that I just need to know if I can."

"Okay, but I think in the interest of that trust, we should tell Henry."

"I concur," Regina says with a hard swallow and wide eyes that suggest that maybe she doesn't agree as much she's implying that she does. But this is the part of Regina that wants to be better – the part that wants to do the right thing even when the wrong one might be so much easier for everyone.

"It'll be okay," Emma assures her, stepping close to her and then lightly placing a hand over hers. "One way or another, we'll figure this out."

Regina offers a sad smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

And Emma wonders why it is that she thinks this one is beautiful, too.

* * *

Regina's standing by his fort when Henry arrives ten minutes later, out of breath and drastically under-dressed (wearing only his flannel bottoms and a Batman tee shirt). When she scowls at him – because even though she's trying to be the mother who isn't strict, he still knows better – he answers her with an impish grin, and then a hard hug that makes everything better.

"All better?" he asks.

She laughs. "For tonight, dear."

"Good. So why are we here instead of in the house where it's warm?" he queries as he looks between his two mothers, frowning slightly.

"Something happened at the bar that we thought you show know about," Emma states, choosing her words very carefully.

"So she was at the bar."

"Yeah, kid," Emma drawls. "You were right. Happy?"

He nods his head. "Go on."

"He's so your kid," Emma huffs.

"The lack of appropriate dress comes from you not me," Regina says.

"Um, guys," Henry sighs. "It's cold."

"The bad attitude and impatience are definitely yours," Emma cracks before turning back to Henry. "Okay, kid, here's the thing, when we were there, we ran into some trouble with a couple of the locals."

"Of course you did."

"Hey! First, no one needs a running commentary and second, hey."

"Thankfully his speaking skills came from me, too," Regina comments, and it occurs to Emma that the former queen has sobered up considerably now.

Which means that she's back to her regular snarky self.

Perfect.

"Okay," Emma nods, knowing full well that she's still stalling, but unable to resist playing around just a little bit. "He got his attitude and being a smartass from you. What did he get from me from again?"

"Your ability to find people," he reminds her. "I knew mom was at the bar."

"True," she admits. "That's something, I guess."

Regina rolls her eyes in response.

"So are you guys going to tell me what happened? What did Emma do to make you take off?" Henry pushes, wrapping his arms around his waist.

"Right. Okay, so the first part – what I did and why your mom went for a walk – that was just a misunderstanding," Emma says, locking eyes with Regina, because while trust and honesty is the name of the game right now, it would be beyond ridiculous to let him know about something that might not have meant anything at all, right? Or perhaps even worse, it'd be a bad idea to let him know about something that _had_ meant something, and then have to deal with whatever fallout from whatever his reaction might be.

Yeah, best not to go there unless they actually have to.

"And the second part? The part that has you guys acting all nervous?"

"I used magic," Regina says bluntly, her voice suddenly very soft. She licks her lips and waits for his reaction, knowing that it won't be good.

It's not.

"What?"

Emma imagines that he doesn't actually mean to use the hard harsh tone that he does, but it spills out of him anyway, and try as she might, Regina can't manage to stop herself from flinching in reaction.

"It just…happened," she offers up, blinking rapidly. "I don't know how."

"And it wasn't much," Emma puts in quickly. "Just enough to shake a few lights and make our new friends run away."

"But you have magic still?"

"I don't know," she tells him, trying to make him see how truthful she is about this. "That's why we brought you here. I'm going to try to see if I can do simple things like move wood around or light a candle. We wanted you to see it so that…so that you know that I'm not lying to you."

He cocks his head to the side, studying her for a moment. "Okay," he says, "But you don't have to do this if you don't want to; I believe you."

She echoes his head movement, unable to hide her surprise. "Why?"

"Because you're telling me about this and you didn't have to. That means a lot to me, Mom." He offers her a bright smile.

"I appreciate that, sweetheart, but I still need to know for me, too."

He nods his head, and then points towards the fort. "Then try to lift that board there. We were going to have to ask Emma for help, anyway."

"Were you now?" Emma laughs, eying the massive branch with a bit of wary bemusement. "What am I? Just the muscle of this operation?"

In sync, both mother and son answer with, "Yes." And then Regina flashes her a smile meant to take any possible perceived bite out of the word.

Because these days, she finds that she does care about hurting Emma.

"Whatever," Emma shoots back, then offers a wink. "Go on, Your Majesty; see if you can lift the wood up." Her tone is much lighter than she actual feels; she's terrified that Regina will be able to use magic out here.

She's not ready for that. None of them are.

There's still so much to work through before they can deal with the magic side of the coin. Still, there's no point ignoring what could be.

It's time to find out.

Henry slides next to Emma and they both watch as Regina focuses on the woodpile, her eyes locked on a specific waterlogged board. She extends her hands, and her teeth grit as she concentrates. Nada. After a moment, she shakes her head, takes a breath and tries again. Still…nothing.

"You feel anything? At all?" Emma asks.

"No, not even a stirring." She flicks her wrists in the way that has always provided her with results (outside of her first few days post curse), and is rewarded with nothing beyond the slight irritation of the movement.

"I saw the purple in your eyes."

"And I felt it," Regina admits. "But it's gone now." She holds up her hands. "I don't understand. Like you said, there's no magic out here."

"That's a good thing, isn't it?" Henry asks, frowning slightly. He's looking between his two mothers, trying to read and understand their expressions.

"It is," Regina tells him. "I just…don't like being surprised."

"But everything is okay now, right?"

She nods her head, and thanks whatever deity is listening that Henry is still just a child, and doesn't see the conflicting emotions on her face. He doesn't understand just how confused and afraid she is of that which is inside of her.

Emma does, of course, but that conversation will hold for now.

"Let's get inside and get warm, kid," Emma says, clapping an arm around his shoulder. "Your mom will even make us all some hot chocolate."

"Very well," Regina says. She and Emma exchange a look – slightly relieved, a bit worried, and terribly confused – and then she watches as Henry and Emma head back up the sand towards the house. She glances down at her hands once more, then back at the wood. A last failed try and she sighs.

And hopes that that's the end of her magic out here in the so-called real world.

* * *

The kid milks the craziness of the night for everything it's worth, managing to convince them that he wants to stay up just so he can be around the two of them for a few more hours. And it works; they let him stay up until almost eleven, and they probably would have allowed for even longer if not for the fact that when Emma looks over, she sees him dozing, mouth wide open.

"And he's out," she says, reaching out as if to tickle him.

"I wouldn't do that unless you want to be up for another two hours," Regina warns as she leans down to pick Henry up into her arms. He's far too big for her and Emma has certainly never thought of the former queen as strong physically, but Regina doesn't even hesitate to lift him. "Can you hold his door open for me, please?" she asks as they near his bedroom.

Emma nods her head, her eyes still on the impressive scene in front of her.

Once he's down in the bed, and beneath a stack of heavy blankets, they both presses kisses to his forehead, and then turn and leave, Emma turning the light off, and then closing the door behind them.

"Well, that was certainly a night," she sighs.

"Yes," is all Regina allows. "And considering all the whiskey from tonight, I think it's safe to say that we can forego the nightcap."

"You had whiskey," Emma reminds her. "I had a beer six hours ago."

"Yes, well, I'm already going to wake up with a headache, but if you would like something, I can make you another hot chocolate, dear."

Emma grunts in response and nods her head in confirmation. She slides herself up to the barstool, watching as Regina effortlessly glides around to the refrigerator. "So, since this is question and answer time…"

"It's not," Regina counters as she begins to warm the milk.

"It is. This is our thing."

"We need a new thing."

"I believe we tried that tonight, and I don't mean what happened on the beach. Taking on a bunch of small town morons…yeah, I'll pass."

"Indeed. All right, you get one question. Use it well."

"How very generous, Your Majesty."

"You're just about down to half a question now."

Emma snorts. Then, growing slightly more serious, "You'd mentioned that you've only had two other friends. Do I know them? Or at least of them?"

She sees the way Regina's muscles tense, and knows that the answer to this somehow come close to one of the "for later" topics. "Does it matter?"

"I suppose not, but like you said, you don't make friends easily so I would think whoever it was would have been fairly impressive."

"Not necessarily," Regina says, pressing a cup of hot chocolate into Emma's hands. When she sees the way Emma frowns in response, she sighs, "Do you need whipped cream or can you drink it like a big girl?" A lifted eyebrow from the sheriff makes her chuckle. "Right," she drawls. She steps back over to the refrigerator and pulls out the Readi-Whip. Two bursts of the heavy cream, and she's placing it back on a shelf and shutting the door again.

"Thank you," Emma says, feeling a bit foolish.

"Mm," is the only reply she gets as Regina leans casually across the counter, lounging in a way that Emma is dead certain she wouldn't have done even as soon as six weeks ago. So much has changed so quickly.

Feelings. Emotions. Relationships. All upside down and inside out.

"So," Emma prompts, trying to push away her own tumbling thoughts.

"Well, there was Jefferson for one."

"Seriously? I figured the two of you were always a hate-hate thing."

"Far from it. For quite awhile back in my world, we were very close."

"So what happened?"

"We went down different paths and…he helped me down mine."

Emma tilts her head. "What does that mean?"

"I found out that he lied to me about my other friend."

"Who was?"

"Daniel."

"Ah. What did he do? Jefferson, I mean."

"He worked with Victor and Rumple to convince me that there was no chance to bring Daniel back from the dead. I…reacted quite badly to the news, which ultimately was exactly what Rumple wanted." She shakes her head. "I fell right into his trap and that's on me, but it was a trap well laid."

"By Jefferson and…Whale?"

"Yes. After Jefferson fell in love and had a daughter, he decided that he needed to come clean with me. I don't react well to that, either. I suppose the only reason that I didn't rip his heart out then and there was that…well, aside from that lie, he'd been a good friend to me most of the time."

"But you still left him in Wonderland which ended up in him getting his head chopped off by your mother."

"Can't say he didn't deserve that," Regina shrugs.

"That's pretty intense as far as revenge goes."

"I don't take betrayal well," Regina says softly. She reaches for Emma's cup almost absently and brings it to her lips, wrinkling her nose at the taste.

"So I've gathered." Emma thinks for a moment, and then pushes forward with a subject that she's sure will end the night. "Then tell me something: why do you accept it from your mother? Whatever else you've been, Regina, you've been a good mother to Henry and you know the difference between what should and shouldn't be. Why do you just accept the things she did to you? You said you've only had two friends; well, one of them was killed and the person you blame for that isn't the person who actually did it."

She sees the way Regina's shoulders stiffen, and she knows that she was right; Regina's going to pull back and away. She's not sorry for bringing it up, though, because they're rapidly reaching the point where this is an issue that needs to be dealt with head on. Regina deserves closure.

Regina deserves the right to stand up for herself.

"I only gave you one question," Regina tells her, her voice soft. "And you used it on Jefferson, I'm afraid."

"But I get another question tomorrow night, right?" Emma asks, offering up her most impish of smiles.

"We'll see," Regina replies. "Sleep well, dear." She moves towards the hallway, humming that uncomfortably haunting tune under her breath again, clearly completely unaware that she's doing it. It's lovely, but strange.

Everything is these days.

Like Regina having been friends with…

"Wait. Wait a minute," Emma says suddenly. "Jefferson."

Regina turns back from where she is by the hallway leading to the bedrooms. She lifts up an eyebrow. "What about him?"

"When he kidnapped me; during one of his rants he told me that there was magic everywhere, but that people just didn't know how to look for it or see it. Or something like that; honestly, he was rambling like a lunatic."

"He is a lunatic," Regina notes. "But go on."

"What I'm saying is, maybe that's what happened today. You have what Gold calls elemental magic, right?"

"You and I both do. We were born with it, and absent some kind of magical exorcism that I'm unaware of actually existing, we will always have it."

"Okay, so assuming there isn't such a thing – and Jesus, that sounds awful – that means that the magic inside of us can't ever really be turned off then, right? I mean it's a part of us. But maybe the difference is that out here, we just don't have access to it like we do when we're in a land…with it."

"You really have no idea what you're saying, do you?"

"No. None at all," Emma admits. "But I kind of know it's right, too. What happened in the alley, that was your instincts protecting you. You can't call forth your magic willingly because that's not how it works out here, but when you needed it the most, it surfaced to take care of you."

"I panicked, Emma," Regina tells her, her voice steady as if to suggest that she's trying very hard to stay calm and controlled here. Emma knows better, though because she'd been there, and she'd seen the look of absolute terror that had been in Regina's eyes when the man had restrained her. "I was being held down, and I panicked. I don't believe that that qualifies as instincts. It's far more likely that my emotions called my magic forward."

"I'm not so sure about that. A few weeks ago, you were as angry as I've ever seen you when you were facing off with Neal. I really thought that you were going to kill him. If you'd had your magic then, there would have been nothing I could have done to stop you. What you felt tonight might have been something to do with anger, but it was more personal than that."

"I don't know," Regina admits. "I just know that…I liked not having it."

"So does that mean we never go back to Storybrooke?" the question is thrown out lightly, almost as in jest, but the strange look she gets from Regina instead stops her cold. It's almost thoughtful and curious, as if Regina is wondering if that's really a valid avenue for her.

"That's not really an option is it?" Regina asks, voicing her thoughts.

"Isn't it?" Emma counters. "There's nothing forcing you to return."

"Except that that's where Henry wants to be and…well, as much as I worry about my magic and what it makes me capable of, the truth is that I'm capable of those things without it. And as you like to say, the thing is, I'm not sure I belong out in this world anymore than I belong back in my old one. Storybrooke just might be the last place that will have me."

"Fortunately, that's not a bridge we have to cross yet," Emma tells her, wondering if she's feeling a bit like a fish out of water herself these days.

There was a time – not all that long ago - when this world outside of Storybrooke had been hers. If she's honest with herself, though, even then she'd mostly wandered through it like a disconnected shadow.

Now, having spent the last six weeks outside of Storybrooke, it's felt a bit like what the memory of a childhood vacation would. She craves things like knowing that the guy she meets down at the store with the name of Joey isn't actually Sinbad, but she likes knowing that back in Regina's little made-up town, she isn't just a screw up nobody that people will forget the moment she closes the door behind herself.

There, she actually matters.

There, she actually means something to someone.

And yeah, it's kind of nice.

In the same breath, though, the world that had parents had come from holds little appeal to her, either.

There, she'll be little more than the awkward princess daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming. In Storybrooke, she's a sheriff, and she has her own life. Sure, it keeps getting hijacked by destiny and scaly dragons, but at least there aren't castles and beheadings and other kinds of executions at dawn.

At least when she opens her eyes in the morning, she's Emma Swan, small town cop who eats too many bear claws and has a rapidly growing son who doesn't know how to stay out of trouble.

It's funny, but in many ways, Storybrooke is her normalcy.

She misses it, but it's not yet time to return. Not until Regina is ready.

That she might not ever be, well yeah, that's a bridge for later.

"Yes, fortunately," Regina confirms, her voice low and scratchy from both the emotion of the day and the alcohol consumed. "Again, good night."

Emma smiles in response, and then returns to her hot chocolate. She hears the soft footsteps down the hall, and then the sound of a door closing.

What a day, she thinks as she places her forehead against the counter.

And as insane and topsy-turvy as it'd been, she knows for sure that she's damned glad that it'd happened. Because the one thing she knows now – the one thing that she absolutely believes – is that, yeah, they _are_ in this together.

**TBC...**


	16. Interlude III

**A/N: As always, thank you for the very kind words.**

**Warnings: Child abuse - please be forewarned; while it's not horribly graphic at all, it likely is fairly chilling. Some salty language as well.**

* * *

Regina knows before she even closes her eyes that tonight she'll dream, and tomorrow she'll remember everything that she saw and witnessed in the bitter nightmare that she's sure to experience whether she wants to or not.

She thinks this as she brings down the blankets, that strange little tune playing across her tongue and lips. It's low and throaty, and she's barely thinking about it, and yet it's rolling around in the back of mind, familiar and somehow horrible.

Because it means something awful, and she knows it.

And yet she can't stop humming it because suddenly she needs to know _what_ it means and why it makes the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

She needs to know why it reminds so very much of Mother.

She sighs and drops down onto the hard mattress, the scratchy fabric of the flannel pants she's wearing keeping her from the coolness of the sheets. She puts a hand out and touches them, anyway, delighting in the feel of while the consistency of the fabric is all wrong, they nonetheless remind her a bit of the sheets on her bed back in Storybrooke.

They remind her of home.

Such a strange thing to think, she realizes. Storybrooke had been an escape, a way to get away from over a decade of hurt and anger and bad choices.

It'd been her new beginning but not her home. Right?

But everything is changing now. Turning. Becoming other than what it was.

Everything is spinning faster and faster and every protective wall that she'd ever erected to keep her safe and secure is tumbling down around her with little more resistance than a house of Legos might give. She's tried to hold some the pieces up simply because protecting herself is the one thing that she knows how to do and has always done, but her efforts are wildly in vain because it's all coming down now.

It's terrifying and horrifying and a lot of other words that she can taste and feel on her tongue, but doesn't want to actually say aloud. If she does, it'll make the things stirring deep inside her real; it'll make the fear real, and she's not sure that she can handle that. She's walked with fear and anger for most of her adult life, but there's something far different about what's happening right now.

There's this little voice inside of her head – the one that has usually led her down the wrong path in its desperate need to keep her from drowning – telling her that if she's doesn't protect herself better, soon there will be nothing left to protect. Soon, she will be exposed for everything that she is.

And isn't.

The problem is that the longer she stays at this little house with Henry and Emma, the easier it's becoming push that voice back and away.

And what's worse, she's not sure that she actually cares as much as she probably should.

She needs sleep, she thinks to herself as she slides beneath the sheets and pulls the blankets up to her hips. With a sigh, she settles her hands lightly across her belly and stares up at the flat white ceiling above her.

It's been a long rollercoaster of a day with entirely too many changes and too many emotions. From realizing for the first time in weeks that she's no longer a prisoner (and probably hasn't been since the first night here) to spending time with the sheriff and their son and realizing that she'd actually enjoyed doing so far more than she would have expected then, of course, there had been the kiss on the beach and the magic in the alley.

It takes everything she has not to touch her lips with her fingers because she's not that kind of girl. She's not a girl at all, she reminds herself.

She hasn't been for a very long time and such silliness is beneath her.

Beneath a Queen.

But she's no longer a Queen, either.

And maybe she's just a little bit tired of silliness being beneath her. Maybe she wishes she could be romantic and cloying and all of those disgusting things that sell books by the dozens. Maybe she wishes she could be the kind of girl, woman, whatever who stays in bed all day just to do so.

And not just because depression is crushing down on her shoulders like a block of cold steel.

So very many years ago, Daniel had encouraged the gentler and happier side of her. He'd said all the right and wonderful things to make her feel like she was worth something. He'd told her that it was all right to laugh inappropriately and for no real reason just because she'd felt like doing so.

He'd told it was okay to love. And then to love again.

She freezes at the thought of this and swallows hard. She pushes him from her thoughts, but can't push the other ones that bubble to the surface away.

She can hear the TV on in the Living Room. Though it's well after midnight now, and everyone should be sound asleep, only Henry is. Emma had seemed edgy and anxious, probably because of both the kiss and the magic.

That's a lot of change for one day.

That the blonde sheriff is trying to drown out her thoughts with a bit of mindless television stupidity (Regina thinks that she can hear the telltale sounds of a laugh track every now and again), well that's not so shocking.

For a moment, Regina even thinks to join Emma out in the front, but quickly decides against it because even though they'd ended the night relatively well – as friends as she herself as requested – they still have the need for personal space.

They still have so many things to think about and figure out.

She licks her lips – not that she can taste anything there anymore, and not as though that's why she licked them in the first place – and closes her eyes.

She hopes for a dreamless night.

She feels the rumbling vibration of the song in her throat.

Haunting and familiar.

It's with her until sleep takes her.

Until the nightmare begins.

* * *

_She's fourteen years old, and things with her mother have been getting a bit strange and uncomfortable for a long now. Her father loves her dearly, and would do just about anything for her, but he doesn't know what to do with a teenager girl who is becoming a woman almost before his eyes._

_He wants to hold onto her and protect her, but well he's never been terribly good at either of those things. So he simply stays as close to her as he can, and he keeps his mouth shut and doesn't do anything that might cause Mother to react badly. Thankfully for both Henry and Regina, he plays his cards well enough so that Mother infers no threat or challenge from him._

_It's why he hasn't disappeared, as everyone else has always seemed to._

_Regina may be only a child – though that's quickly draining away with every change of her body and every somewhat violent swing of her mood – but she knows that her mother is not one to be trifled with._

_And so does Daddy._

_But they're both smart enough to keep their wits about themselves._

_Most of the time, anyway._

_It's becoming harder and harder for Regina to keep herself from doing stupid things that will surely upset Mother. The ugly and dark things that she feels these days are swirling around in her in ways that she doesn't understand. The anger is so strong and she wants to hurt people so much._

_These kinds of feeling are terribly wrong, she knows._

_Because anger and hurt are for bad people and not ladies of the land._

_And that's what she is, Mother always reminds her. She is a Lady who will one day be so very much more than that. When she tells Mother that there is little that she wants besides love and open air, she's laughed at._

_Because those are silly dreams._

_Beneath a girl of her potential._

_Beneath the promises that have been for her._

_She's never quite known what to make of statements such as these – and thankfully Mother only makes them when she's angry – but they unsettle her because Regina has this strange feeling that there are things she doesn't understand, and possibly never will. She has feeling that the world is turning around her, and she's just stuck in the middle watching the clouds go by._

_"Regina," she hears. She turns away from her thoughts – and the large mirror that she has been staring absently into for the last ten minutes – and faces her mother as she sweeps into the room, looking spectacular._

_"Mother," she answers quietly. She feels a flicker of anger deep down within her, frustration at the fear she recognizes within herself._

_"Why are you not ready?" Cora demands, her dark eyes coldly taking in the simple clothing of her child. The garments are leather and more leather, something that Regina has gravitated towards; Mother hates them, but they're comfortable and they feel like a sort of rebellion that she can get away with. "We are expected over at the O'Malley estate shortly."_

_"Do I have to go?" Regina asks, and yes, it's a bit of a whine, which is entirely the wrong way to go about this, but she finds that it's becoming more difficult these days to give Mother the responses she's looking for right away. She finds that she wants to fight back a little bit. She finds that she wants to make a stand about the person that she thinks she is._

_Unfortunately, Mother isn't actually interested in who it is that Regina thinks she wants to be; she only cares for who it that she wants Regina to be._

_Which is enough to make Regina want to make Mother angry so that she knows how it feels. Perhaps if she did, perhaps she would back off a little._

_But then Regina realizes with a shot of ice through her gut, she doesn't really want that, either. Partially, because she's afraid of her mother's anger, but mostly because she really does want Mother to be proud of her._

_She wants so desperately to be loved by her mother._

_But not just because she dresses like a perfect princess and courtesies like one, too. And not just because she smiles appropriately and says the right things to the right lords who one day might offer up their son in marriage._

_Idealistically, stupidly, she wants her mother to be proud of her simply because she's her daughter and that's enough._

_Deep down, though, even Regina knows that it never will be enough._

_"You do," Cora replies plainly, and the omnipresent warning voice in the back of Regina's mind tells her that she should take this answer as the best one she's going to get. Mother simply looks annoyed right now, and that's far better than angry. She should count her blessings and go with it._

_"Fine, but if I go, can I at least go riding with Daddy and the others?"_

_The warning voice inside her head screams at her to shut up, shut up, shut up right now because Mother's starting to tense, her growing anger beginning to tighten her shoulders and her jaw. "Absolutely not."_

_"Please," Regina insists, refusing to listen to the voice and refusing to see the warning signs that she more than anyone knows well. "I don't want to –"_

_"Enough," Cora snaps. "You are a lady, Regina. You are not a man no matter how much your father tries to convince you otherwise. You will get dressed, and you will present yourself with the dignity and grace that I expect of you or so help me…" she trails off, shaking her head in disgust, her face furious in a way that almost always leads to bad things for Regina._

_Usually, it's just the simple and unpleasant matter of being locked away without food and with only water in her room for a few days at a time, but sometimes it's far worse than that. Sometimes there's magic involved, and sometimes her mother's anger even hurts more than it probably should._

_These memories are enough to make Regina finally surrender to her mother's desires. "As you wish," she says, bowing her head as is expected. And then, because this, too, is expected of her, "I'm sorry, Mother. I let my childish thoughts get the best of me. It won't happen again."_

_"It will," Cora replies. "Because you are insistent on throwing all of the good things that I have set in motion for you. You're selfish and foolish."_

_"I am," Regina agrees as mildly as she can manage. She doesn't mean this subservience – she's so damned angry about this – but she knows when it's time to stop fighting and give in. She knows when to let her mother win._

_Better to surrender and apologize now then after three days in hunger and solitude have passed by. Lessons learned the hard way, of course._

_Cora's eyes narrow for a moment, and she studies her daughter carefully, as if looking for signs of disobedience. She must know that Regina is being a little bit cheeky with her, but for whatever reason, she chooses to let it go. She nods her head sharply. "I'll send Maria in to help you get dressed."_

_"I don't need her," Regina insists because being dressed by others has never been something that she's ever much cared for. While many of the upper class (and high middle class as they are) in this land like the feel of servants tending to their every need, she finds it invasive and a loss of self._

_It's one thing when the dress is extravagant and needs multiple hands to get it on and in place, but it's quite another when it's something simple like what this little meet and greet with a neighboring land lord will require._

_But Cora won't hear of it. "Just because you insist on acting like a worthless peasant does not mean that you are one," she reminds her daughter. "And considering the clothes that you choose to adorn yourself in," she indicates towards Regina's leather pants – a particularly sore spot for Cora – "Well, my dear daughter, I'm afraid that I simply have no confidence in your ability to look like a young woman instead of a peasant. You will let Maria dress you and that will be the end of this ridiculous conversation. Understood?"_

_"Yes, Mother."_

_"Very well. I will see you shortly." She's about to leave, but stops, taking a moment to stare at the blank expression on her daughter's face._

_She steps forward and reaches out to touch Regina, her icy cold palm cupping her daughter's chin with unnerving gentleness. "I know this is difficult for you to understand, and I know that you want to go out and be frivolous with your father, but you are meant for far more than such simple things. I have bigger dreams for you, Regina. Bigger dreams for both of us. Today is an important step in that direction. It's a step that we can make together. Can you be a good girl for me today? Can you make me proud?"_

_The voice inside of her head screams at her to answer the question asked appropriately, to give Mother what she wants to hear here because Mother is being loving and kind, and this is all that Regina has ever really wanted._

_A soft touch and her mother's love._

_She listens for once, and forces a smile. "Anything for you, Mother."_

_"There's my beautiful little girl," Cora replies before leaning forward and pressing a light dry kiss to Regina's forehead. For the briefest of moments, it's so very easy for Regina to forget all the fear and anger that she feels._

_It's so very easy to look beyond the pain of feeling as though her life isn't her own. Mother is showing her love and pride, and that's enough._

_When Cora finally steps away, she looks at her daughter again, her expression growing cool and detached once more, and then she sweeps from the room, the hem of her majestic gown swirling around in her wake._

_Regina lets out a breath, and then, turning back to the mirror to stare at her reflection, determines that yes, even though she'd much rather be out riding and hunting with Father (that she knows how to use a sword and shoot a crossbow is one of their little secrets), she'll do as Mother asks of her._

_Not because she cares a bit for the lofty dreams that Mother has for her, but because she really would do anything to make her mother look at her with such pride and love. Even if that means losing herself a little bit._

_With a well-practiced sneer of disgust, she rather haughtily reminds reminds herself that's only fourteen years of age. What does she really know of herself? Perhaps Mother is right and there are bigger things in store for her._

_Mother is usually right, she thinks as an elderly woman enters the room and begins the uncomfortable business of undressing and redressing Regina._

_She says nothing to the woman because this, too, is expected of her. Per her mother (and told to her repeatedly) Maria is a servant, and servants do not require more than the most basic of communication. They should never be treated as equals because they are not equals and never will be._

_That they have a name of their own, well that's dignity enough, Cora had sniffed on the one occasion that Regina had dared to ask her about showing kindness to one of the servants who had worked in the kitchen._

_She'd never forgotten the strange look that had gone through her mother's eyes, then; something that had looked a whole lot like self-loathing._

_Something that had seemed a bit like a haunted and painful memory of a past not quite as forgotten as Cora might have preferred it to be._

_"My lady," Maria says, her voice so tentative and scared. Regina has no doubt that her mother has been quite clear in her orders. She wonders idly if Maria still has her heart, and then thinks that that's absurd because those are just rumors; stories being told by bored and jealous peasants._

_Her mother knows magic certainly, but she's no murderer. She might be wicked in her own way, but it's not like she's out there stealing hearts._

_Just spiteful rumors and terrible stories._

_"Proceed," Regina nods._

_She stares straight ahead at the mirror as her comfortable clothes are removed, and then replaced by a light blue gown. It's pretty, certainly, and shows off her growing and rapidly changing figure and her natural complexion in a way that's entirely complimentary, but the truth is that it's far from comfortable for her. It's not who she is or who she wants to be._

_But then again, Mother knows best._

_And for her mother's love and pride, she really will do almost anything._

* * *

_Unfortunately for Regina, all of these good intentions as far as her mother go out the window when she meets the neighboring lord's fifteen-year-old son Joshua O'Malley. He's just as disinterested in all of this pairing and pretending as she is. Part of that has to do with the fact that not only is he the youngest son of seven (with all of his brothers being knights) but also that he was born with a bad leg which will always cause him to limp terribly. This affliction makes him unworthy of marriage, and thus likely to be little more than a long-term ward of the manor – someone to be taken care of._

_It's after they've been in the middle of this absurdity for over two hours, and the both of them are bored of the pleasantries and small talk, that he says to her, "Want to do something else?" His green eyes twinkle, and he seems mischievous not dangerous. He seems as out of place as she is._

_"What did you have in mind?" Regina asks, her eyes sweeping over to where Mother is standing with several other well-dressed ladies. She knows how much her mother despises these interactions (the other women treat her as lower than them unless forced to do otherwise) but Cora is playing nice all the same because this is part of her bigger plan. Whatever that is._

_"We have a river running through our land," Joshua tells her as he leans heavily against the wall, his hand going down to rub at his thigh. He winces, his face contorting for a moment before he forces his expression neutral again. "It's nothing spectacular, but it's not here, and that's something."_

_"Mother will never let me leave," she replies. She takes in the others in the banquet room – mostly women and older men. Her father is long gone now, having happily left with the younger royals to go ride and hunt. Before he'd left, he'd given a knowing smile and told her to make her mother proud._

_"She's not paying attention to you right now," he comments. "They're too busy trying to manipulate each other into invites to other important parties. That's all this is; a way for them to try to move pieces around a board."_

_She looks up at him and sees the shrewdness in his eyes, sees the way he regards the room with open disdain. This isn't his world anymore than it is hers. Fortunately for him, no one seems to be trying to force it to be._

_"She'll notice," Regina murmurs. "She always notices."_

_"Maybe, but not for a time yet," he assures her with a smile that's meant to be easy but comes off as forced. She wonders if he struggles with the ability to be happy as much as she does. "We can be back in a half hour. You can just say you went to get some air." He offers her his hand and for a long moment, she simply stares at it before nodding her head in agreement._

_"Fine, but just a half a hour," she states. She doesn't take his hand, though, because such contact with a boy she barely knows would be too familiar and completely inappropriate. Frankly, simply leaving with him is as well, but it'll only be for a few short minutes, she tells herself. No one will know._

_And she really does need the air._

_"Promise," he says, his smile becoming wonderfully impish as he motions towards a side door that leads to the outside. "Half hour."_

_She returns the smile, and then follows him across the room, just barely managing to escape her mother's sweeping gaze. Cora is looking for her, Regina knows, but not actively so. And the conversation she's in appears to be important enough to provide the necessary cover for escape._

_She and Joshua slip from the manor with relative ease, and he takes her down to the flowing river that forms the border of his father's land. It's beautiful and blue, and there are bright green trees everywhere._

_"I come here a lot," Joshua tells her as he gazes down at the water. His voice is soft and thoughtful and terribly sad. "Just to get away."_

_"It's nice," she comments, her eyes on the blue. She shifts a bit anxiously as she watches her, her heels sinking into the recently cut grass beneath her._

_"Go on; sit down. The grass won't bite you."_

_She laughs because it's an entirely absurd thing to say. "Of course not," she says dryly, but she stays standing, her eyes now on the blue of her dress._

_"Afraid?" he challenges._

_Her response is immediate. "No." She squares her shoulders – and thinks that she must look rather bizarre doing so in a dress – and stares at him._

_"Then sit, Princess."_

_She's no longer a princess. That title was long ago stripped away from her family after her grandfather had been defeated in an ill-chosen battle with another king, but she smiles just the same at his playful words because he doesn't mean them in the cold and calculating way that her mother might._

_He's teasing her, and she'd forgotten how nice it felt to laugh. So she does it again, and then with a tilt of her head meant to tell him that she'll gladly meet his challenge, Regina folds her pretty dress beneath her and sits._

_"That's better," he says before dropping down beside her. He picks at the grass, yanking a few blades out before tossing them towards the water._

_They sit like this in companionable silence for several minutes, her eyes on the movement of the water. It's slow, lazy and peaceful, and she thinks that she could sit here forever just watching the world move forward. She's never really wanted to do that before; so terribly afraid of being lost in the swirl and madness of things. Afraid of having her life decided for her._

_"You're lucky," she says finally._

_"My leg would beg to differ," he chuckles as he reaches down to rub at it._

_"Yes, but your leg might keep you from being traded like meat."_

_"Really? You think so? Perhaps my older brothers - the honorable knights that they are – will be allowed to decide whom they want to be with, but not me. If my father were to find someone desperate enough to be willing to allow their daughter to marry me, he'd do so in a minute."_

_"Oh." Then, lightly, looking at him and offering a slight smile meant to reassure him because he looks like he needs it, "They mean well."_

_"They mean well for themselves, Princess," Joshua comments, his tone bland. "For us, well…I'm not sure that we're much of a consideration."_

_"No," she agrees. It's hard to argue with his words when she herself has spent so much time fighting against her mother's designs and plans for her._

_It's hard to argue when you know your life isn't really your own._

_Her eyes return to the water and she just watches it._

_And lets the world move forward without her._

_And for once, it actually feels good to do so._

* * *

_Time flows too quickly, and a half hour is gone before either of them is aware that it's passed away with the light from the sky high above. It's this rapidly growing darkness that brings Regina – who had foolishly allowed herself to doze off next to Joshua on the soft green grass – to her waking senses. Her dark eyes snap open and she lets out a short cry of fear._

_"She'll know," she hisses out at him as fear floods her body. "You lied to me," she accuses, and she's suddenly so very angry and scared._

_"I'm sorry," he says, looking confused. She thinks that maybe he's so used to being forgotten that he doesn't really understand what it's like to not be._

_Ignoring him, she stumbles up to her feet, and immediately loses her balance. It's only Joshua's hand – the firm touch of a boy with a bad leg and as much of the world against him as she has against her – that steadies her._

_"Easy," he says. "It'll be okay." Her words are gently, soothing. A balm._

_And then he cries out in pain and falls away from her, his face contorting in agony as he reaches for his bad leg. He screams and falls to the grass._

_"No, my dear boy, I don't believe it will be," an icy voice says from nearby._

_Regina's head jerks to the side and she sees her mother standing there, her coal black eyes darker and more furious than Regina has ever seen them before. "Mother," she whispers. "No, it's not what you think."_

_Because she knows exactly what Cora is thinking. And the way her mother is squeezing her hands, she knows that Cora is the reason why Joshua is on the ground, whimpering in pain and clawing for purchase against the grass._

_"And what is it?" Cora growls out. "What were you doing out here with this boy? Were you planning on ruining yourself with the family garbage?"_

_"No! And he's not…I just needed to get away for a minute," Regina insists. "Please, stop hurting him. He did nothing wrong. He did nothing to me but let me get some air. Please." She steps towards her mother, her hands out._

_Unfortunately for both she and Joshua, Cora ignores her pleas completely. She focuses her attention on the wounded teenager. "Tell me; what were your intentions with my daughter? Did you really believe that a crippled boy such as yourself could ever have a chance with someone like her?"_

_"Mother, no!" Regina cries out as her hand settles over Cora's forearm. "Listen to me, please! You need to stop right now. Stop or I'll –"_

_It's entirely the wrong thing to say and do because suddenly Cora's rage is turning from Joshua to Regina and then it's Regina who finds herself in the grasp of violent magic. For a moment, everything freezes and then suddenly Regina feels her body lifted into the air. "You'll what?" Cora demands._

_Unable to actually answer, Regina cries out in shocked surprise, the words locking down in her throat as of her muscles and bones seem to squeeze together. She thinks she hears a dry snap and then there's nothing but pain flooding through her. Tears spill hotly down her cheeks and she tries to find her mother's eyes, but all she sees is a deep purple swimming within them._

_"You do not talk back to me," Cora hisses as she squeezes her hands even tighter. "After all I have done for you, you never talk back to me."_

_The air is suddenly gone and Regina's choking and gagging._

_She's pretty sure that she's about to die._

_"The things I have done for you," Cora continues, the words leaking out of her mouth like hot acrid smoke from an exhaust pipe. "The things I have done to myself; I will not allow you to throw everything away like this. I will not allow you to destroy everything that I have built because you think that you have the right to do so. You do not. You belong to me. To me!"_

_Regina's just about blacked out from the pain and the lack of oxygen when she hears the thudding against the ground. Horses, she thinks as she fades away, her vision going gray and then dark. She wonders who has arrived._

_"What the hell are you doing?" she hears._

_Oh, it's Daddy, Regina thinks, realizing in some kind of absent way that for the first time that she can ever truly remember, he's come to protect her._

_She's falling, then, spinning rapidly and horribly out of control._

_Her wounded and broken body slams against the ground with a terrible cracking noise, and then there's nothing but pain._

_It all goes black after that._

* * *

_She floats in and out of feverish consciousness for hours, her mind becoming aware for a few minutes at a time, and then quickly surrendering back to the softness of nothing. Presumably drugged, she feels very little each time she surfaces, but she hears bits and pieces of the strangest conversations._

* * *

_"You could have killed her, Cora. What were you thinking?"_

_"I was protecting her."_

_"From whom? Yourself? And who will protect her when everyone comes for you? They saw what you were doing. They know you have magic now."_

_"So let them come. Do you think I'm afraid of a few spoiled princes?"_

_"You've gone too far this –"_

_"I did what I had to do to ensure her future. You would be well to remember that, dear. You would also be well to remember that you should never presume to have the right to raise your voice to me again."_

_"Cora –"_

_"I'm not afraid of you, Cora. Do whatever you want to do to me. I don't care; just make her better. You hurt her. Make her better. Please."_

_"She's my daughter, Henry; I will always take care of her."_

* * *

_There's a soft humming sound, low and in her ear. The song is strangely melancholy, but undeniably beautiful. It's also familiar, like something that she remembers vaguely from when she was a very small child._

_She has the strange sensation like she's being rocked. She's resting against something soft, something that feels like a person's chest. There are arms wrapped around her. Protectively, perhaps even possessively._

_The humming continues, and Regina surrenders to it willingly._

* * *

_"I'm surprised you've called me, dearie."_

_"I didn't have a choice. She's not getting better."_

_"Oh, yes, yes; I see that. Go too far, did you?"_

_"I have no patience for your games. Can you help me?"_

_"Can't do it yourself, no? Healing magic is fairly simple."_

_"You never taught me it, and I've never had use for it."_

_"Until you nearly killed your own daughter that is."_

_"I'll ask you again: can you help me."_

_"But of course. There's little I can't do."_

_"Then do it."_

_"Uh uh uh; you know the rules. Magic always comes with a price."_

_"Fine. What do you want from me?"_

_"From you? Nothing. There's nothing that you can give me anymore."_

_"There has to be something."_

_"Desperate are we? Tell me, now that you've revealed your true nature to all of the frightened little nobles around here, what exactly is your plan to get your daughter to the…next stage."_

_"Not that I owe you any explanation, but I have my ways. There are other kings and lords besides the ones here. One in particular."_

_"Oh, yes. Well, you have never lacked for ambition, now have you?"_

_"Enough of this. You must have a price. What is it?"_

_"Oh, I have a price indeed, dearie, but you won't be the one paying it."_

_"Who will?"_

_"She will. Eventually."_

_"We'll see about that."_

_"Indeed, we will. Now if you'll step back, I really do need the space."_

* * *

_When Regina finally comes completely to her waking senses almost three days after the incident by the river, she's in her own bed, the blankets pulled up tight over her torso. Cora is sitting next to her, dabbing at her forehead with a damp cloth, still humming the strangely dark little song._

_Every part of her body aches, but not as she might have expected it to._

_"Mother?" she says finally as she pushes the blankets down a bit. She's never particularly liked being restrained by them or well, anything._

_Immediately, Cora stops humming, and looks down at Regina with what seems like worry. As always, there is strange dullness to her expression, like the emotions don't quite make their way all the way through her._

_Still, it's a much softer expression than what Regina is used to, and in spite of everything – including the pain and hurt that she still feels, however reduced those things might be - she finds herself gravitating towards it._

_"I'm here, dear," Cora states, brushing a hand over Regina's sweaty brow._

_"You hurt me?"_

_"I did," Cora admits. "I didn't want to. I didn't mean to."_

_"Then why?"_

_"You scared me," Cora answers. "I came upon you and the boy, and I was frightened about what you might have done. I'm afraid I reacted badly."_

_"I didn't do anything. We didn't do anything. He just showed me the river."_

_"It's never just anything, my sweet girl. There's always more to everything that happens, and it's my job to protect you from that. It's my job to help you become what you're meant to be. That's what a mother does."_

_"You hurt me," Regina repeats, this time a statement instead of a question._

_"And I am sorry for that, Regina. I love you so much that I lost my mind when I thought you were in danger. Will you forgive me?"_

_"You attacked me when I asked you not to hurt Joshua."_

_"I reacted to what I perceived as danger to you," Cora says simply, again brushing at Regina's hair. Her expression has hardened, however, and it's clear that she's growing weary of this conversation. She wants it over with, and in the past quickly. "But you're all right now. Everything is all right."_

_"Did you have someone use magic to heal me?" the young girl asks, lifting herself up slightly in the bed. The bones that had felt broken earlier now just simply ache. The pain is still there, but not as it was._

_"I did," Cora replies, her voice oddly brittle._

_Regina gets the strange and somewhat unsettling feeling like there's more to this story – more to the odd conversation between the healer (?) and her mother that she'd heard, and now just barely remembers._

_"I'm afraid," Regina tells her, changing the subject much to Cora's relief._

_"Don't be," Cora soothes, reaching out to cup Regina's chin. "I promise you, Regina, I'll never hurt you again like that. You believe me, don't you?_

_Regina pauses for a moment, searching for what she needs in her mother's dark eyes. She doesn't see it, but then again, she's not completely sure what she should be looking for anyway._

_And her mother does truly sound remorseful for what she'd done._

_"I do," Regina whispers._

_Cora smiles then, holding it there for just a moment before she schools her face again. "Good. You're my daughter, and I love you. Nothing in this world means more to me than you do. I hope you know this."_

_"I do," Regina repeats. "I'm tired, Mother."_

_"Of course you are. Rest now, dear; I'll be here when you wake up."_

_Without pause, Regina does as instructed, darkness once more overtaking her vision. The last thing she hears before she allows the exhaustion to pull her down is that sound of her mother humming that damned song again._

* * *

Lucille Ball will always make her laugh. It's clichéd as all hell, but Emma finds the absurdity of Lucy and Ethel rather ridiculously enjoyable.

And easy to get lost in.

And right now – lazily slumped down against the back of the couch, her eyes on the big screen TV - that's exactly what Emma needs.

Because a day that had started with Neal and ended with magic (and had a rather enjoyable, but badly timed shared kiss in the middle of it) is the kind of day that tends to make a person think some fairly deep thoughts.

Like what the hell is she doing trying to be the sane and stable one?

Like what if they allow Neal to take Henry for a few days and he runs off with him? What if he tries to take their son away from them permanently?

Like what if there's a way for Regina to make the magic work out in the real world? What if she gets homicidally angry again? Is she still that person?

And like what the hell did the kiss that they're shared mean? And why can't she stop thinking about it and wondering why she can't stop wondering about it? This is an absolute mess, and the more that she tries to work it out, the more complicated things get within her own exhausted mind.

So yeah, thank God for Lucy. And even Ricky, hilarious fucker that he is.

She's laughing under her breath, and shaking her head in amusement when she hears the first soft cry from Regina's bedroom. It's low and panicked, and at first all Emma does is clench her jaw in frustration because she's heard these nightmares for weeks now, and she's never stepped in to stop them. It hasn't been her place to do so.

But then the soft cries become outright shouts of pain and fear, and she hears Regina scream out, "Mother, no!"

And that's enough to make her decide that yeah, it's time to do something.

Emma jerks up from the couch, and she's halfway down the hallway – running as fast as she can - before she even realizes that she's in motion. By that point, she reasons with herself that she's come too far to turn back. Besides, they're friends now, and friends don't let each other suffer.

The truth is, though, that even if they weren't friends, she'd probably still be doing what she is because no one deserves to go through this kind of hell.

She enters Regina's bedroom and is stunned by what she sees: the former queen is thrashing around in her blankets, the sheets tangled around her flannel-clad legs. Her typically olive skin is blanched white with fear, and her lips have been pulled into an expression that can only be called terror.

"Regina," Emma calls out, approaching the bed quickly. When there's no response – and honestly, she hadn't expected one – she places a hand on both shoulders and shakes the older woman as hard as she can manage.

Dark eyes snap open and then Regina's staring up at her, confused and scared, and looking like she's about to break down at any moment.

And then she does.

Tears spill from her eyes and down her cheeks, pooling against the soft cotton fabric of the red shirt that she'd gone to bed in.

"Regina," Emma says again, loosening the hold she has on the woman.

If Regina hears her, she shows no sign of it, her breathing becoming heavy and labored, almost like she's hyperventilating.

Acting purely on instinct, Emma removes both hands from Regina's shoulders, and lifts them to her face, cupping a palm around both sides of her neck, the semi-circle between her thumb and pointer finger on each hand resting just beneath Regina's ears. "Hey," she says. "Easy. It's okay."

"Emma?"

"Yep. All day long." She rubs her thumbs lightly - almost absently - against the soft skin of Regina's cheekbones, sweeping one gently past an earlobe.

"I…"

"Sounded like you were have a pretty bad dream" Emma puts in after it becomes clear that Regina isn't going to finish the sentence. "About your mother," she adds, her green eyes locking with Regina's darker ones.

Regina's eyes close, and she sags about. Not that Emma lets her go.

"Hey," she says. "You can talk to me. "I'm right here."

"You woke me up," Regina notes weakly between pained gasps as she tries to calm herself down and get her emotions back under control. Everything feels upside down, and any walls that she had had up are long gone.

She's falling as she'd thought she would.

The only difference is, there does seem to be something stopping her.

Someone.

"You were interrupting Lucy and Desi," Emma answers with an impish enough smile to let Regina know that she's just teasing her.

"Sorry," Regina retorts, her heart not quite into the banter. That she tries, though, warms Emma's heart because it means that Regina is still there.

"Yeah, it's okay. Lame ep. Next one looks to be the chocolate one."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"We really need to modernize you. Actually, Lucy and Desi are old school."

"I didn't spend much time watching TV."

"Yeah, so I gathered. You want to talk about the dream you were having?"

"It was my mother," Regina says. She lifts her hands up and places them lightly over Emma's, letting them rest there for a long moment. It's incredibly intimate, and for a second, all they do is gaze at each other.

All they do is lose themselves in each other's eyes.

There are some intimacies deeper than the physical, and this is one of them.

Regina exhales loudly. Another few seconds pass before she says in a voice that's almost inaudible, "I remember what the song I've been humming is. I remember where it came from. My mother sang it to me after…"

She shakes her head.

And Emma waits. And waits.

Finally, Regina pushes both of their hands away from her face. "I don't know how to talk about this," she admits, looking away from Emma.

"Then don't."

Her eyes snap back." I don't understand; you've been trying to make me talk about this almost since the day we arrived here. Why the change now?"

"There's no change," Emma says, noting that while Regina has pushed their hands away from her, they're still touching, resting on the sides of her. "But you need to be ready for this. And if you're not, well…I want you to be."

"And if I never am? What then? Do we stay here indefinitely?" The thought makes her stomach curdle simply because while this place has been a haven and an escape, she's come to realize that it's not home for either of them.

"You will be," Emma assures her. "And I'll be there when you are."

"Tonight," Regina says suddenly, glancing over at the clock. It's almost two in the morning so yes; technically it is a new day.

"What?"

"I'll do it tonight."

Emma shakes her head. Her hands tighten around Regina's and she gives them a reassuring squeeze. "You don't have to put timelines on yourself."

"I do because if I don't, I never will. I don't want to forget again."

Emma blinks. "You don't?"

"I do, but I can't," Regina says softly. She looks down at their joined hands for a moment, and then slides them away, folding them into the sheets, her anxiety as clear as day to both of them. "Not again."

"All right," Emma nods. "Tonight. But, if you change your mind –"

"Don't let me. Make me be brave. Promise me that you will."

Their eyes lock, and Emma nods again. "All right; I promise."

She receives a shaky smile of gratitude for this.

"Do you want to try to sleep again?" Emma asks after a moment. Off Regina's almost urgent shake of her head, she tries again with, "Okay, well then, would you like to come watch some Lucy and Desi with me?"

"Probably not, but I will anyway."

"It's pretty awesome, actually."

"I fear that your understanding of that word and mine are not the same."

"True, but some things are universal," Emma notes as she stands up from the bed, and gives Regina the space to crawl out of her blankets. Her face is streaked with tears, and she looks like a mess.

And this is still progress.

"I'd like to wash up," Regina says, her voice low and almost embarrassed.

Emma lifts her eyebrow, and several things shoot through her mind – including one that rather strangely involves offering to help her – but instead of voicing any of those, she says, "Cool. I'll grab some popcorn."

"At two in the morning?"

"I don't think there's an actual time requirement on popcorn," Emma counters, grinning a bit. "I'm pretty sure that being that we're adults, we're allowed to have it whenever we'd like. Including at two in the morning."

"Well, one of us is an adult, dear. I'm not sure what you count as," Regina fires back, and Emma finds that she's almost ridiculously pleased to see the old haughty disapproval showing in the bemused quirk of her lip.

"Yeah, whatever. I'll meet you in the Living Room," Emma tells her.

Regina offers a slightly watery smile in confirmation, and then turns to stare back at the sheets behind her. Emma considers for a moment saying something, offering some sort of comfort, but then decides against it.

Tonight, Regina had said. Tonight, they'll talk.

She favors Regina with one more worried look, and then leaves the room, stepping out into the hallway, and settling her hand against the wall.

She recognizes the look that she'd seen in Regina's eyes.

She remembers all too well the kids that she'd lived with; the ones with the haunted eyes. She can still vividly recall the tortured and damaged ones who'd woken up screaming and begging their parents to stop hurting them.

She remembers doing that a time or two herself.

It's been a very long time since she's had one of those nightmares.

And still, they're familiar.

She doubts that they will ever not be.

* * *

Regina doesn't even make it through the first episode.

It's maybe ten minutes after she's sprawled herself across the couch, a thin blanket over her flannel-clad legs, that her eyes droop down and she's asleep, finally resting after the insanity of a terribly long day.

Emma watches her for a few minutes, her green eyes narrowed as she searches for any signs of the unwanted dream that had plagued the former queen just a little more than an hour ago. There's nothing there, however.

Not even a slight tremble.

And still she watches.

Because she understands all too well the force of such nightmares.

She places a hand lightly onto the couch, as close to Regina's slumbering form as possible without actually touching her. As much as Emma wants to do exactly that right now, she won't do it without permission.

As it turns out, she needn't have worried; when Regina turns slightly, her hand slides over Emma, her finger intertwining with the blonde's.

When she looks up at Regina, she sees the woman watching her, sleepy dark eyes still somehow managing to be intense. She's reminded of how just weeks earlier, she'd been the one who had been awake unexpectedly.

That had been about attempted murder.

This is about attempted comfort.

"You okay?" Emma asks softly.

"Not yet," comes the honest response. "You?"

"Not yet," Emma echoes. "But getting there, I think."

Regina nods her head, and then closes her eyes again. "You'll stay?" she asks without opening them again, her fingers tightening around Emma's.

"Yeah, I'll stay."

"Thank you."

"Sleep," Emma says. "The sun will be up soon."

"Just don't forget your promise. Even if I fight you."

"I won't."

There are no other words after that; Regina simply dozes back off again, her body still beyond the slight rise and fall of her chest. She looks almost peaceful, and Emma's surprised by just how much she enjoys this.

She stares at the former queen unabashedly for a few minutes, taking great liberties with her eyes, and only feeling slightly ashamed of them.

Finally, her eyes go back to the television.

Back to the comedy that will keep her from dwelling on terrible things like mothers and fathers who don't love their children as they should.

When the sun rises, she does so with it.

That she never sleeps is something she keeps to herself.

Though she'd never asked for either title, she's both the Savior and the White Knight, and her job is to protect so that's what she does.

And tonight, she'll honor her promise to Regina. Tonight, she'll make Regina be brave in a way that will likely break both of their hearts as the memories of their shared and not quite shared pasts wash over them like fire.

For now, her hand curled tightly around Regina's, she simply protects.

* * *

**Thus begins the final arc of this story. This one could safely be called Breakthroughs, and they're about to come fast and furious. Buckle in.**

**If you're so interested, you can find me on Tumblr at sgtmac7**


	17. 13

**A/N:** As always, much gratitude for all of the kind sentiments expressed.

Warnings: mild language maybe and perhaps some vague references to violence that occurred in the past.

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Henry finds them sound asleep next to each other in the morning.

There's nothing overly strange or even all that compromising about their positions when he comes upon them; Regina is sprawled indelicately across the couch, the scratchy brown blanket slung low over her legs and hips, and Emma is on the floor, slumped uncomfortably, but still mostly upright.

It's not their positions on and against the couch that their eleven-year-old son sees and stares at, his green eyes narrowing thoughtfully; it's their hands. They're still connected, their fingers woven as tightly together as they'd been just hours earlier. He's young, and knows very little about adult relationships and emotions, but he knows that this is both intimate and new.

He can't take his eyes off of them.

Or their connected hands.

"Henry," Emma mumbles out, making him almost jump into the air. He has a distinctly guilty look on his face, and for a moment, Emma's curious about it because she can't figure out why he'd be wearing such an expression.

And then she feels Regina's slim fingers tighten around her own, the action apparently more instinctual than intentional. She looks back up at Henry, sees the way his eyes slide towards their hands, and sighs.

"She had a rough night," Emma offers up.

Thankfully, that seems to do the trick; whatever other thoughts Henry had been having about what he thinks he is or isn't seeing right now, they slide away and a frown replaces the curiosity. It's an odd relief to witness because it means that he's not immediately jumping to some bizarre conclusion that overrides his ability to care about his adoptive mother. It means that these past six weeks have mattered to more than just she and Regina.

"Is she all right?" Henry all but demands, his eyes widening with worry.

Emma tilts her head backwards and glances up at the still sleeping former queen. Her dark hair is mussed and over her eyes. That she's quite beautiful like this is something that Emma firmly pushes into the far recesses of her mind because nothing has changed just because they'd fallen asleep holding each other's hand. There are still a lot of very good reasons why the kiss is something that neither one of them should think too hard about.

There are reasons why they should both forget that it'd had ever happened.

Not that it's likely that they will.

The facts remain, however, that their hands aren't connected together now because of anything sexual; this contact is about emotion. It's about what Regina had asked her to be; it's about friendship and support. It's about being there for the former queen and letting her know that she's not alone.

Especially considering the sure to be unsettling conversation that's likely to come this evening. Regina had asked the sheriff to push her into talking about her mother, and though Emma finds herself slightly fearful of the revelations to come, she means to uphold her promise to the former queen.

They're here in the house together because of a hundred terrible things that have happened to them throughout their less than perfect lives, but more specifically, they're here because Emma's mother had murdered Regina's.

And they're here because both of them have issues – parental, control, anger management, self-esteem, well name it, really - for days.

So, yeah, this conversation is not going to be a fun one, but perhaps it's never felt more necessary than it does right now, and though she shudders at the emotions that are likely to spill out tonight, Emma plans to ensure that they do even if it leaves them both completely spent emotionally.

She plans to keep her promise to Regina even if doing so and making the former queen talk about things that they both know that she'd rather not will result in both of them being a little more heartbroken. Facing the truth is one of those things you can't take back; Emma knows for certain that once Regina completely accepts who her mother was and what Cora had done to her, well then the former queen won't be able to un-ring that bell.

Cora Mills had shaped her child in a truly heinous way, and yes, she may have been absent a heart, but that doesn't scrub away the damage done.

They're here so that Regina can face her past – and Emma, too, the blonde sheriff has come to realize over the last several weeks – and part of that means not only accepting who she was, but how she'd become such.

It's about knowing the whole story, accepting it, and finally moving forward.

"She will be," Emma assures him, offering her son a soft smile.

"Did she have another dream?"

"She did."

"What was this one about?"

"Her mother," Emma tells him after a brief pause. She's not sure that she should be this honest, but well, maybe he needs to understand how truly human his own mom is. Maybe he needs to know a few of her demons.

Just not in detail.

"Oh." He swallows and then nods his head, looking suddenly quite anxious.

"I'm all right, dear," a low rumbling voice says. A hand sweeps out and brushes dark hair back and away, fingers for a moment threading through her locks as if to try to untangle knots that have formed during the night.

"Mom," Henry breathes, and he sounds almost ridiculously relieved.

Regina smiles up at him, her face lighting up in a way that Emma finds frankly breathtaking. "I'm all right," she says once more. "Just dreams."

"But your dreams hurt you."

"No, sweetheart; my dreams are just the past. They can't hurt me anymore."

It's not a malicious lie by any stretch of the imagination, but it is a blatant one – at least to Emma's eyes and ears - and it makes the blonde sheriff lift her eyebrow up in curiosity. She doesn't contradict Regina, however; she just watches and observes and tries to understand what Regina's up to.

"Good," Henry says with a grin. His eyes slide back to the hands that are still joined, and that's when Regina finally notices them as well. When she pulls away, it's not exactly dramatic, but it's hard to miss the urgency of the motion. Regina suddenly seems quite uncomfortable, and Emma can almost see and feel the protective walls going up; she can see Regina's shame.

And it confuses the hell out of her.

Part of her thinks to demand an answer right here and now, but she manages to bite down on her bottom lip to halt such blatant absurdity. Regina has a reason for her reaction, and it seems suddenly absurd to Emma that she should feel so slighted by the former queen pulling away.

After all, hadn't she done exactly that the day before? Hadn't she been the one to pull away from something far more intense than just holding hands?

Yes, yes she had.

And yes, it _had_ been far more intense.

So intense, in fact, that it had caused an extremely emotional Regina to take off afterwards only to then end up at the bar that they'd had lunch at so as to get drunk on whiskey and then create magic when she and Emma had been threatened by a bunch of redneck idiots with impulse control issues.

There'd been a few more interesting details in-between, of course, but those hardly seem as important to Emma as kiss-alcohol-magic does.

"Are you hungry, sweetheart?" Regina says suddenly, and though she's clearly speaking to Henry, Emma uses the words as a good opportunity to the hell out of her own complicated and decidedly conflicted mind.

Away from thoughts that she has no idea what to do with.

"I am," Emma chirps as she pushes herself to her feet. Her back pops and cracks, but if Henry notices, he doesn't say anything. And Regina, well she's just wearing this grin that seems to say that she'd heard every single sound.

"When are you not?" Regina teases, her tone sandpaper dry but friendly.

This is the new them, apparently.

Friends.

Weird. And kind of cool. But yeah, definitely weird.

"Henry," Emma drawls. "Remind your mother that we're both young and growing and that insulting our food intake is rude."

"What she said," Henry notes. "Though –"

"Stop right there," Emma warns. "I _am_ young, and I _am_ growing."

"Well young is certainly accurate at the very least," Regina sighs, sounding completely put upon. Emma sees right through her, though; after all these weeks together, she knows the difference between Regina playing the part of being annoyed and when she actually is it. This is pure acting for her. "Or perhaps more correctly, you're both children." Regina adds on an overly large smile meant to be slightly scolding, but it completely fails because Emma and Henry exchange looks, and then they're both just laughing.

At her. At themselves. At all of this.

Regina thinks maybe she should feel a bit insulted, perhaps even a bit left out because of the way Henry and Emma are laughing together right now. It's just the two of them sharing this joke and it looks so very natural and easy for the both of them. Emma's hand is on Henry's shoulder, and she's leaning forward, her body trembling beneath the weight of her mirth.

It's beautiful and perfect, and yes, Regina is almost insanely envious.

But she's oddly pleased as well, and she has no idea what to make of such feelings because they simply make no sense; she's never been one to accept someone else placing claim on the things she desires. And yet with Emma…

She quickly pushes such thoughts away, rolls her eyes as dramatically as possible, and turns on her heels (she finds herself suddenly very much missing her once omnipresent stilettos). "I'm going to get breakfast started. When you two are done acting like children at a circus, you may join me."

"Have you ever actually been to the circus?" Emma asks. "Have either of you?" She's technically asking both mother and son, but judging by the sudden tightening of Regina's shoulders, she has a pretty good idea that the former queen won't be answering this question willingly.

How very odd, she thinks, but then pushes that thought back and away for the moment, her eyes focusing on her frowning son.

"No," Henry answers finally. "We've never had one in Storybrooke." He looks up at his adoptive mother. "Why didn't we have one?"

"I'm not a fan of them," Regina says simply and concisely, her clipped tone making it quite clear that this isn't something that she wishes to speak of.

Deciding to allow Regina a few moments of reprieve (Regina has to know by now that the sheriff _will_ push on this) Emma turns to Henry. "Well then, I guess I can rule out that being where your fear of clowns came from, huh?"

"Yeah," Henry chuckles. "But good try."

"I will get that story out of the two of you."

"You keep saying that, Sheriff," Regina drawls. She's standing in the entrance of the kitchen, watching the two of them with a slight look of bemusement on her face. "One day, perhaps, you even will. Now, can we maybe get breakfast started before the two of you begin to starve?"

"Sure, sure, but you know what, Regina? Just for the record? One day I _will_ find out about Clown-Gate," Emma teases. "I. Will."

"If you say so, dear."

She turns her back on them and makes her way deeper into the kitchen, stepping behind the counter. Behind them, Emma and Henry follow, Henry pushing himself up on a stool, and Emma moving to join Regina at the stove.

Then, because she's decided that it's time to push a little bit about this whole circus thing, as she pulls out a carton of eggs, Emma presses forward with, "So, what's your thing about circuses? You have been to one, right?"

"Of course," Regina answers, her voice suddenly tightly controlled. It's clear that she'd been hoping for Emma to drop the subject. She really should have known better by now. "As the Queen, it was my duty to attend them a few times a year so as to support the entertainers within the kingdom."

"Fifteen little men jammed in a car together not your thing?"

"There were no cars in my world," Regina reminds.

"You know what I mean."

"Mm. As I said before, the circus just wasn't something I enjoyed."

"Why not, Mom?" Henry asks, leaning forward on his elbows, his eyes bright and curious like he has no idea that this might be something that hurts.

Regina pauses for a moment before offering up in a voice that sounds entirely too controlled to be normal, "In this world, circuses are often considered cruel because they gather outcasts together and have them make fools of themselves for the pleasure of the masses. My world was not so different in that regard, but it could also be unspeakably savage and terribly unforgiving to those who… failed to entertain the King."

"What does that mean?" Henry queries, and Emma's suddenly quite certain that she doesn't want Regina to answer the question. Regina's world is far darker and meaner than Henry's book had ever suggested it to be.

Had the Enchanted Forest been the home of True Love? Yes, perhaps for some of the lucky ones like her parents, sure, but for everyone else, it'd seemed a bit like a constant shitfest full of pain, hurt and despair.

"It means," Regina says after licking her lips. "That if the performers failed to entertain the King or the Queen or any part of their Court, they were…"

She trails off, suddenly looking very uncomfortable. Her eyes slide up to Emma's and the sheriff sees the shame and regret shining there.

"Killed?" Henry demands. "The circus people were killed?"

It's so goddamned inappropriate, but Emma almost laughs because of the way Henry asks the question. It's all so very absurd.

And yet so very real.

"Sometimes," Regina says softly, her eyes closing for a brief moment.

"Did…did you…kill anyone for failing to entertain you?" Henry asks.

And there it is; the question that Regina has clearly been trying to avoid having to answer. Emma feels like slapping herself for missing the signs.

"Henry," Emma warns, not quite sure what else she's going to say.

"No, it's…well it's not all right, but we…I promised you the truth, Henry and I mean to keep that promise to you the best I can," Regina cuts in, her voice shaky. She looks at her son and tries to make solid eye contact with him. "You already know that I did terrible things there as the Evil Queen, yes?"

He nods, his brow furrowing as he tries to take in what she's saying.

"This occurred before those days. It was my first time at the circus, and I didn't know…well, that doesn't matter, does it? I was angry and I didn't want to be where I was and it was never really about the young man who was trying to entertain the King and I, anyway. I'm afraid that I didn't realize the consequences of my behavior and it cost someone their life."

"Oh," Henry says, looking disgusted. He looks down and away, and though Emma doesn't actually need to see the heartbroken expression on Regina's face, she does so anyway, and it hurts far more than she had expected it to.

"Henry," Emma suggests in a gentle voice, "Why don't you go and get shower up, huh, kid? Breakfast should be ready by the time you're done."

"Yeah, okay." He casts one fairly unreadable look back at Regina, and then turns and leaves the room, his footsteps soft and almost tentative.

"So much for progress," Regina says quietly, looking away from Emma. Her hand comes up and she scratches anxiously at her temple for a moment before seeming to realize what she's doing. When she does, she snatches her hand away, and fisting it, presses it against her leg to keep it still.

"Hey, it'll be okay," Emma promises her. "He'll be okay."

"You keep telling me that," Regina answer with a sharp nod and a harsh pained sounding chuckle that sounds more like a sob. "And for some reason or another, Emma, I keep believing you, and then he asks me another question, and I have to show him who I am yet again." She shrugs her shoulders in what appears to be an attempt to control her own body lest it give out from beneath her. "How am I ever supposed to earn forgiveness from him if every day is just another story that reminds him of the truth?"

"And what truth is that, Regina? That you were the Evil Queen, and that you did some pretty fucked up things? He knows all of that already."

"Really? You saw the look on his face. He doesn't just think that I'm a monster; he knows that I am one, and always will be one. He knows."

"All due respect, Regina, but I think you read him wrong."

"Did I now? All right, then, Sheriff, tell me, what was my son thinking? Since you know him so much better than I do, apparently."

It takes everything Emma has not to roll her eyes at the obvious defensive jab. It's not unexpectedly really; when in pain, the former queen lashes out. "Probably the same thing I was; your world was pretty fucked up."

Regina laughs at that, and considering her dark her emotions had been a moment earlier; it's a wonderful sound. "I really hope he wasn't thinking it the exact same way you were; I'd like to think he has more class than that."

"And there we go. Feel better now?" Emma asks with a grin.

"Because I insulted you?"

"Yeah."

"A little bit. Thank you."

"No problem." She offers Regina a small smile, and then reaches forward and takes an egg out of her hand. "Breakfast is my gig, Regina. Sit."

That she's trying to keep Regina from crushing the egg in her noticeably shaking hand is something neither mentions, but both are aware of.

Just the same, Regina seats herself on one of the stools, somehow managing to look regal in flannel pants and a tee that is way too big for her.

"So, what's the rest of that story?" Emma prompts.

"The rest?"

"I'm sure there's more to it than you disliked someone and they died."

"Unfortunately, my dear, not as much more as you or I might like. The King was showing me off to the members of his Court that had joined us. I was, well depressed doesn't really begin to cover it. It was a few months after the wedding and I was beginning to understand that this would be my life going forward. The circus came to town, and your mother wished to go so we did even though I asked the King if I could abstain. He might have even allowed it initially if not for the fact that your mother wished me there."

"Don't tell me you blamed my mother for this, too?"

Regina laughs, the sound short and sharp. "I wouldn't have been there at all if not for her so yes, at the time it was just another stone in the wall that existed between the two of us. Not that she was aware of it."

"And now?"

"Now I suppose I understand that that boy's death is on me," Regina answers coolly. "That is what you want me to say here, yes?"

"Well, no, not really. I don't want you to say anything that you don't actually mean, okay? And you know what? Maybe after all we've been through over the last several weeks; maybe we can stop having this conversation where I ask you to believe that I'm on your side? I'm not judging you here, Regina; I'm just trying to figure out where your head is on all of this."

Regina sighs, her shoulders sagging. "You're right; I'm sorry. I just…"

She stops abruptly, swallowing almost convulsively as she looks down at her hands like they're the greatest and most horrible weapons ever created.

"You're afraid of losing him," Emma finishes for her, her voice gentle.

The former queen nods her head slowly, the look on her face nothing short of stricken and defeated. "Every time he finds out a new detail about my past, I confirm for him the worst of his thoughts about me. It was one thing when I was just some vague kind of evil on a page, but now he knows that I'm it in the flesh as well. I'm every nightmare that he's ever had."

"And yet he loves you, anyway."

Regina shakes her head, unwilling to believe the words she's hearing. "And how is it that you are so very certain of this, my dear?"

"Because I am, and because we're not going to let you lose him. You and me, Regina; he needs us both and he's going to have us both. We'll figure everything else along the way, okay?" She punctuates her words with a determined glance, the kind she'd once thrown Regina's way when they'd been at war with each other. This time, it's meant to show her strength.

This time, it does.

She sighs. "After the King…died," she offers up after a moment, "I stopped going to the circus. In fact, as soon as I was able, I had them outlawed."

"Good."

"I'm afraid you're one of the rare ones who thinks so. My decision was not met with much joy by the peasants. It was their entertainment, and I was the Evil Queen taking it away from them just to show them that I could do so. By that point, however, I'm not sure I cared what they thought of me."

"Well, what did they know, anyway? Damn peasants."

"Indeed," Regina chuckles.

"So I have a question for you. Or at least another one, anyway," Emma says as she breaks three eggs into the pan. "Why did you lie to Henry about your nightmares and yet tell him the truth about what happened at the circus?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Yeah, so bullshit on that. Wanna try again?"

Regina lets out an annoyed sigh, and then says, "He doesn't need to know."

"So you're going to pick and choose what truths to tell him."

"Do you think if I were that I would tell him the ones sure to push him away from me?" Regina challenges as she moves herself to her feet. She steps away from the barstool and starts pacing back and forth anxiously.

"You know, for as much as I understand you sometimes, Regina, there are things about you that I don't think I'll ever get. You're telling Henry the bits of your past that are the ugliest and most damning, but you're hiding how much you're hurting from him. I don't get that at all; I'm sorry, I just don't."

Regina stops pacing and turns to stares right at Emma, but she doesn't bother to offer up a defense. Her eyes tell the tale anyway; Emma's right.

"Just tell me why?" the blonde presses. "Why won't you let him see how much all of this has hurt you? Why won't you let him see you vulnerable?"

"Because he's a child and I'm his mother, and I'm supposed to protect him."

"If he's old enough to hear about yours sins, then he's damn well old enough to know about your wounds as well, Regina," the blonde sheriff fires back, her hands set sharply upon her hips as she glares back at Regina.

"No," Regina answers simply. "He'll never be old enough for that."

"That sounds to me like a pretty twisted way of trying to ensure that he'll never love you as much as you want him to," Emma comments.

"You act like I'm trying to manipulate him."

"Not intentionally, no, but this is a manipulation of sorts."

"I'm not…it's not –"

"You're testing him."

"No. No, I'm not," Regina insists, her normally tanned face paling considerably at even the thought of such. She looks genuinely outraged and horrified at this idea, and this is almost enough to sway Emma off course.

Almost but enough.

Because she's right about this even if Regina doesn't yet realize it.

"Yes, yes you are. You're trying to see if he's capable of loving you for all that you are, but here's the thing, Regina, the test is fixed isn't it?"

"I have no idea what the hell you're talking about," Regina hisses out, her dark eyes glistening. "And I would say, dear, that it is probably in your best interest to drop this ridiculous line of debate right now."

"Probably, but as we both know, I'm not really one for doing what might keep me safe from former Evil Queens with anger management issues."

Regina actually growls at this, her teeth clenching. It'd be almost comical if she didn't' look so goddamned homicidal. The thing is, though, while Emma is smart enough to recognize that Regina will always be dangerous, she finds that she herself is no longer afraid of the former queen. She believes that they've come far enough that Regina is no longer a threat to her.

"Right; exactly," Emma replies with a smirk. "Now, how about the truth."

"From me or from you?" Regina challenges.

"Well, my truth is that you don't actually believe he can love you so you're making sure he only sees the bad parts of you to prove that."

"To what end? Do you think I'm trying to lose him? Didn't we just have a conversation where you promised me that you wouldn't let that happen?"

"We did, and no, I don't think you're consciously trying to lose him. I think it would devastate you if it happened again, but I think there's a part of you that believes – for whatever reason – that you're not worthy of his love."

"I'm not," Regina says simply. "But that doesn't mean that I don't want it, anyway."

"Yeah, well, he wants to give it to you so maybe it's time for you to start letting our son see all of you. Even the parts that scare you. You're more than just the Evil Queen, Regina. She's who you were. Let him see who you are now. Let him see who I see."

"And what _do_ you see?"

"Someone who is fighting like hell to be the person they want to be. That's who you should let him see, too."

"And what of you, Emma?" Regina fires back. "Does he see all of you?"

"No," Emma admits with a hint of sadness that seems to freeze Regina's anger cold. "He sees me as the Savior and not as his mother."

"That's absurd."

"Is it? When he's hurt or scared or sick, he goes to you. When he needs someone to save someone or pull out a sword, he comes to me."

"There are worse things to be than you son's hero."

"Until I inevitably fail him," Emma counters. "And let's be honest here, Regina; we both know that I will fail him eventually. But I suppose that's okay, right? It'll even things up between us in his eyes a little at least.

"Believe it or not, I don't want that as much as you might think I do," Regina admits. "I don't want him to see you as anything close to how he sees me."

"No? Time was that's exactly what you would have wanted."

"Times change, don't they?"

"I guess they do," Emma answers with grins. "After all, you did manage to call me Emma instead of Miss Swan even when you were pissed at me a few seconds ago. You know what, I think you actually really do like me."

"Yes, well," Regina demurs, and if Emma didn't know better, she'd think the former queen to look a bit awkward and uncomfortable about what the blonde had just said. "I suppose I am growing accustomed to you."

"Right. Well, back at you," Emma tells her, meeting the brunette's eyes. It's suddenly become quite important to her that Regina understand that though Emma's words are light and airy, the sentiment behind them is not.

Regina answers her with a smile that lights up her face. "As lovely as this sentiment is, dear, you're going to burn my eggs. Try to concentrate on them while I go find out what's taking Henry so long in the shower."

"You may not actually want to know the answer to that," Emma suggests.

Regina's eyebrow lifts. "I have no idea what you're trying to say."

"He's eleven," Emma grins, then wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.

"Focus on the eggs."

"Of course, Your Majesty."

"And Emma?"

Emma looks up from the eggs. "Hm?"

"Thank you for last night. Waking me up, and then staying with me through the morning, I mean. You could have kept your distance and let me deal with the dreams on my own, and that would have been all right and perfectly understandable, but you didn't and…well, thank you."

"I'm glad I was able to help."

"You were," Regina confirms. It's not often in my life that I've had anyone willing to be there for me without wanting something in return."

"You've got me now."

"I won't forget that again," Regina says softly, then turns and leaves.

Emma watches her for and thinks about how times really do change.

And how both she and Regina have changed with them.

* * *

"Hey," Emma says as she presses her cell phone to her ear.

Her hair is still dripping wet, and she's wearing little more than a pair of faded jeans and a white bra, but seeing the caller ID come up with David's name instead of Neal's (she knows that he's expecting an answer about Henry) had been enough to convince her to pick up the phone.

"Hey back," David chuckles, a hint of familiar humor in his decidedly hot chocolate warm voice. "It's been awhile since I've heard from you." There's a slight scolding note to his tone, but not enough to really annoy her.

"Sorry," she answers. "Things have been kind of crazy here."

"Yeah? Crazy how? Are you all right? Has Regina –"

"David," Emma sighs.

"Right. Everything's fine. Got it."

"It is," she states. "Fine. Or at least it's getting closer to that every day."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really," Emma assures him. There's a pause, then, and she knows that he's waiting for her to supply him with more information, but she doesn't say a word; she won't betray Regina's trust like that, and besides, what exactly would she say to her father? How could she even begin to explain the massive relationship shifts that have occurred between she and Regina?

And that's not even including the kiss.

But really, what could she say to him that he would understand? He long ago had placed Regina into the role of the villain incapable of being more than that, and in those moments where he remembers that she actually is a person, he regards her with suspicion and patronizing self-righteousness.

Emma has a lot of affection for the man, and even she sees these things.

That doesn't mean that he's completely wrong in his feelings about Regina; the former queen had certainly done a number on her parents. She'd split them up for three decades all because of a rather wrong-headed desire for vengeance. And even before that, they'd all had ugly history together.

But Emma hadn't been part of that history, and while she understands that it's not her right to simply disregard it, she has no intention of it allowing to inform Regina's future – or her own – more than is absolutely necessary.

If David wants to be wary of Regina, that's understandable, but Emma doesn't plan to allow him to be skeptical of the progress Regina has made.

The progress that _both_ she and Regina have made.

"Okay," he says finally. "Well, then how are _you_ doing? How's Henry?"

"He's good. I think he and Regina are out on the beach together."

"Is he enjoying himself?" David asks, and it sounds like genuine curiosity.

"I think he is; he has both of my mothers with him, and he's pretty much the center of our worlds. Plus he's a snarky bastard. Just like her."

David laughs, the sound loud and rich. It's wonderfully refreshing to hear.

"Yeah, well, good luck with that," he tells her.

"Thanks. So, not that I'm not happy to hear from you, but is this just a check-in or is there something else that you wanted to talk to me about?"

"There's something," he says, and she can almost hear the happiness bursting in his voice. "Your mother went back to work today."

"She did?"

"She did. Been a long six weeks, but she woke up finally feeling like herself again. She wanted to get out and see people and get back to normal."

"Good. That's good…good for her," Emma replies, frowning a bit.

"And yet unless I'm mistaken, you don't actually sound happy about it."

He's right, of course. It's not that she's not happy for Mary Margaret. Not exactly, anyway. It's more that it just seems so damned easy. For the last month and a half, she and Regina have been on the edge of almost every emotion known to man, and for as much progress that has been made, there's still so much more healing and recovering in front of both of them.

There's no such thing for them as just one morning deciding that they feel better and thus all is well. There's no such thing for either of them as simply choosing to push all of the past away and focus solely on the future.

The one thing Emma knows for sure – and thinks that she will always know – is that the past is defining; even once she comes to a place of peace with everything that has occurred and not occurred within her often-turbulent life, she knows that she will always carry old battle scars with her.

Always.

And she actually prefers it that way.

Her parents aren't like that, though. Her parents carry their bloodied pasts with them only as a reminder of the things that they have conquered and risen above. They don't use the memories of the dark days that they have defeated as warnings signs, and they don't reflect on how their victories may have led to the downfall of others who might not have deserved such.

She shakes her head and tries to clear her head. She thinks that maybe she's being unfair to them; her time here with Regina has made her empathize with the former queen, and perhaps that's fogging up her view of things.

Her parents aren't the villains of this bizarre little tale.

But then again, the more time she spends with Regina, the more she understands just how worthless that word really is. It's black and white, and it only tells the very easiest and most simplistic of stories.

It doesn't speak of the pain and hurt beneath the flesh and bone.

"I am happy," she lies, smiling to herself before she remembers that he can't see it. "I'm glad that she's doing better. I'm glad she's back to her life."

"But?"

"There's not really a but; just a question."

"Go on."

"How is she about what she did?"

"To Cora?"

"To Regina," Emma corrects.

"I think," he says after a long moment, "That if she could go back and do everything again, she would have done things a whole lot differently, but Emma, Cora had to be stopped from becoming the Dark One. God only knows what she would have – could have – done with that kind of power."

"We're not debating that," Emma assures him. "But we are debating whether it was okay for Mary Margaret to put more blood on Regina's hands. Especially her own mother's. We agree that Cora had to be stopped, but that doesn't justify using Regina to kill her. You know it doesn't."

"I know," David admits in a soft voice, "She doesn't speak much of it to be honest. She's been really trying to get herself back to who she was."

"So you mean she's been avoiding what actually happened?"

"Is there a point in her dwelling on what happened that night? What's done is done," he replies stubbornly. He's digging his heels in to support his wife as he believes he should, but Emma can tell that his certainty is wavering.

"That's not it works. You can't move on until you deal with the past," Emma insists. "That's why I'm here with Regina now. Helping her let go."

"Your mother and Regina aren't the same person, and they don't need the same things," David reminds her, his tone growing impatient and frustrated, like he's talking to a small child. "Mary Margaret needs to remember the best parts of herself, not fall back into the darkness that consumed her."

Emma actually feels herself flinch because the words he's saying sound so ridiculous to her ears. They sound so flowery and hopeful and perfect.

Perfectly wrong.

"She murdered someone, David," Emma reminds him. "And please, don't tell me that Regina actually did it. You know that's not the point. Nor is it the point that Cora probably deserved what she got. None of that actually matters; all that does is that she has blood on her hands now."

"But that wasn't her," David insists. "She wasn't herself."

"You're right; she wasn't, and that's why it is so damned important that she doesn't just pretend like it never happened. She can't sulk under her sheets like she was, but she can't just make it all go away, either. She killed someone, and she has to wear that as much as Regina has to wear her sins."

"They're not the same person," David says again. There's some desperation in his voice, and it's just enough to make her move in for the kill.

"I know, but I also know how slippery that slope becomes once you start justifying your actions with words like good and evil. I'm telling you – I'm begging you, David, please don't let her just bury this because if you do, one day she'll wake up and look at herself in a mirror and she won't like who she sees staring back at her. She's my mother and my best friend, and I want more for her than that. Please. Promise me you'll make her deal with this. Even if you don't want her to, promise me you'll do it anyway."

It's not lost on her that this is a variation of the promise that Regina had extracted from her the night before, but somehow, it feels appropriate.

It's time for everyone to stop running.

It's time for everyone to stop hiding behind labels and intentions. If she and Regina have to account for their pasts, then so does everyone else.

"I promise," David finally answers with a resigned sigh.

"It's the right thing," Emma assures him. "And I know that doesn't make it easy, but David if there's one thing I've figured out over the last twenty-nine years, it's that the easy thing is usually the wrong thing, anyway."

"I promise," he says again, and this time his voice is a bit firmer.

"Thank you." Then, with a small smile, "I miss you guys."

"You can come home anytime you want."

"She needs me," Emma says simply. "And I don't really mind being here."

"You two are becoming friends?" he observes.

"Does that bother you?"

"A bit," he admits. "After all, she took you from us for almost thirty years."

"Not really. I'm not going to even bother trying to defend the shit she pulled back in the world you came from because it's indefensible, but the two of you, you're the ones who made the choice to send me through the wardrobe. There's a lot on her, but choosing to let me go is on you guys."

"One of these days you'll forgive us for that, right?"

"I think that's how family works," she replies, and she knows it's not the response he'd hoped to hear, but she doesn't want to lie to him and tell him false words just to make him feel better. She owes everyone more than that.

"Right." She can almost see the sadness radiating off of his reply. "Just, make _me_ a promise now; be careful, okay? You may think she's changed –"

"I know she has," Emma cuts in. "I knew it a few months ago, too. I ignored my instincts then, and I won't do it again. She has changed. She's still the same constantly pissed-off arrogant obnoxious control freak of a woman –"

"That almost sounds affectionate," he breaks in.

"We've had a lot of time to talk," she admits, and then clamps her mouth shut. That's frankly more than she should have said, but hardly revelatory.

"You know your mother loves her still," David notes. "Has never stopped."

"Well, then, maybe if we're lucky, we can help get both of them to a place where they can forgive each other for the past and move forward."

"You make it sound so easy."

Emma chuckles. "Oh, if you only knew."

"Maybe one day you'll tell us."

She smiles because the likelihood of that is almost none. "Yeah, maybe."

"Right," David answers because he knows a brush-off when he hears it. After a moment, he sighs. "I hate to do this, but I should probably get going. I need to get into the station before it gets too much later."

"Because there are so many bad guys to chase down."

"Hardly," he chuckles. "Me and Leroy have just been trying to keep an eye on this Mendell fellow. He's a bit insistent on staying around so we've been trying to make sure he doesn't see anything he shouldn't."

"You made Leroy a deputy?"

"Temporarily, yes. Just until you get back. It was him or Granny and between you and me, I'm a bit worried about her trigger finger."

She laughs and he laughs, and it's a pure and perfect moment. The kind of idealistic moment that you see on TV in those Family Channel movies that are made to show someone how love can conquer all. She's never really believed in such silliness, but that doesn't mean she doesn't want to.

"Good point," she agrees after the laughter has faded to silence. Finally, softly, "Tell Mary-Margaret…well tell her something that makes me sound like the daughter I'm supposed to be."

"You _are_ the daughter that you're supposed to be," David insists, and his tone is firm and suddenly unrelenting. It pushes a flood of warmth through Emma's chest, and try as she might, she can't stop herself from squirming.

Because in spite of the epic fuck up that she is and in spite of the mess that she has made of her life time and time again and despite twenty-eight years of separation, her parents love her just because they do.

She swallows and then does it again.

Finally, in a voice roughened with emotion, "Thanks. I'll talk to you soon."

"We miss you, too," he says.

"Soon," she repeats, and then hangs up the phone before she does something ridiculous like break down crying on it.

He's her father, and she barely knows him. He's her father and she's not at all close to him. He's her father, and he misses her anyway.

She exhales sharply, her whole body trembling beneath the effort of it.

And then she laughs (because it's better than crying) and wonders if she'll ever get used to any of this.

* * *

He's been silent for almost the entire hour that they've been out here.

She's tried to start up a conversation a few times by asking him a few questions – mostly about little inconsequential things such as how he liked the comic he'd read the night before or is breakfast had been good – and he'd answered them, but then immediately returned to his fort.

She feels a bit like they've lost all of the progress that they've made over the last six weeks, and it hurts her in a way that makes her insides twist and turn. She recalls this particular soul-searing agony all too well. During the days just before Emma had come to town and the ones after, the distance between she and Henry had been vast and catastrophically painful.

This – watching him and feeling so far from him – feels exactly like that had. That she believes it to be her own fault – again – offers her no comfort.

"Henry," she says softly, her voice cracking sharply. "Can we…can we talk?"

He turns his head and looks at her, the expression on his face unreadable.

"Please?" she puts in when it seems to her like he might refuse.

"Sure," Henry says, shrugging his shoulders as if to suggest that he doesn't actually care. He's holding an oversized waterlogged branch in his hands and when his body moves, he almost smacks himself in the face with the stick. Regina thinks to herself – and then scolds herself for the absurdity of the thought – that Emma probably would have laughed if she'd seen that.

She steps towards him, pushing her hands into her pockets to hide them from him as she walks. "I'm sorry," she starts, swallowing hard.

He tilts his head looking strangely confused all of the sudden. "For what?"

"For disappointing you again."

"Because of the circus story?" he asks as he puts the branch down.

"That and…other things. I was a very angry back then and I did terrible…I hurt people terribly. Even when I didn't intend to like with that boy at the circus, I still did. I was…I was the Evil Queen that you thought me to be."

"I know," he answers.

She visibly flinches; it's one thing for Henry to have read about her and believed the stories as a child believes in Santa Claus, but it's quite another thing entirely for him to actually understand what a monster she'd been.

And still is.

Her mouth goes completely dry and her violently heart seizes like it's about to explode. For a moment, she thinks that it's going to. She starts to reply, but before she can, he speaks again, "But you're still my mom."

"Henry," she gasps. "I –"

He cuts her off, pushing ahead with the kind of righteous boldness that only a child – or a Charming – can possess. "The first night we got here, Emma told me that someone had hurt you very badly once. Is that true?"

She offers him an uncomfortable smile, the kind that's meant to keep the ugly emotions in and locked away behind a high wall. "Yes," she confirms, not bothering to add that it was far more than one person who had contributed to her downfall. "But it doesn't…it doesn't justify what I did."

She's still not entirely sure that she believes the words she's saying, but they're the words she needs him to hear because she simply will not allow him to become who she is. She might not be the best mother in the world, but if she can prevent him from walking her path, well that's something.

"Emma told me life isn't about justifying; sometimes it's about understanding," Henry states, his green eyes strong and confident.

"She did, did she?"

He nods his head. Then, with a frown, "You've never seemed like you needed anyone. I guess I never thought anything could hurt you."

"Oh my sweet boy, how I wish that were true."

"Why didn't you ever tell me?"

"Because I'm not…because I want to be strong for you. I want to be what you need me to be, and a broken mess isn't that. I owe you more than that."

"You're not broken," he announces, his chin up.

"Then what am I, dear?"

"You're mom," he says once more. It's almost exactly the same words that he'd said a few moments earlier, and yet they mean something else entirely.

They mean acceptance if not yet forgiveness.

"Henry," she whispers again, not knowing what else to say and too afraid to try a longer sentence in the fear that she might break down into tears.

"When I said I don't want you to lie to me anymore, I meant about everything," he tells her, his jaw set in determination. He reminds her a bit too much of his grandfather in the moment, but she lets the feeling pass.

"Some things I can't tell you," she insists, her already low voice rough with emotion. "Some things I don't want you to know because you shouldn't have to know…you shouldn't have to know about the things I do. No one should. I love you so much, Henry, and I will do everything in my power to be as honest with you as I can, but I need you to understand that there are things that I can't talk to you about and believe me when I promise you that my reasons for not doing so have nothing to do with deceiving you."

There's a pause and then he says quietly, firmly, "I believe you."

Her eyes close for the briefest of moments and then she smiles. It's still tinged with sadness, but there's relief and a surge of joy there, too.

For this child, she will do anything. For Henry, she will face any obstacle.

Even herself.

For his love and acceptance, she will confess any and every sin.

That he might not need her to, well that's something she can barely comprehend; that's something she's certain that she doesn't deserve.

But for once, maybe – just maybe – she'll accept it, anyway.

"We're almost done," he says, then, bringing her attention back to him.

"Done?"

"With the fort. I think I'm kind of sad about that, actually." He motions to their fort, and truly, there's not all that much more to be done on it.

Until the next storm rolls in and tears it down once more.

"It's still our thing," she says, praying that he won't reject her. Praying that he won't take this from her. From them.

He doesn't.

"Yeah," he nods. "Yeah, it is." He picks up the branch and holds it out to her. After a brief moment, her hand closes around the wet wood.

He's a child and doesn't understand metaphors and things of the like, but all of this means something to her. All of this feels like a sign.

All of this feels like hope.

She places the branch atop the fort.

He grins at her and then puts his own – a piece of driftwood - atop of hers.

* * *

She finds the blonde sheriff working out in the garage when she and Henry get back to the house around noon. Emma's in a tank and she's got her hair pulled back, and even though it's a cool day, she's dripping sweat. Her hands are taped up and she's standing barefoot in front of the heavy bag.

"Are you all right?" Regina asks from the doorway of the garage as she watches Emma deliver two particularly brutal jabs to the swinging bag that both of them have made excellent use of over the last several weeks. She glances back towards the house, her eyes locking on Henry's form as he moves through the kitchen prepping lunch for the three of them.

Emma tilts her head and offers her a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"That wasn't actually a response," Regina notes after a few seconds.

"David called," Emma says finally, turning away from the bag. She places her taped hands down by her legs, her fingers curling and uncurling.

"And?"

"Mary Margaret went back to work today."

"I see."

"That's it? That's your response to your mortal enemy getting back to her life?" Emma snaps out as she steps closer to Regina. There's a mean kind of light in her eyes, the kind that signifies when someone is picking a fight.

Regina steels herself and stares right back at Emma, her chin up.

"Is that what you want from me? Because I was under the impression that you wanted me to let go of my hatred of your mother instead of holding it close to me. Was I wrong? Would you prefer I consider a new curse?"

Emma sighs. "God, no, but…ugh, I'm an ass; I'm sorry."

"Hardly the word I'd use for you. Now would you care to tell me what's bothering you? After all, as you said, I should be the one angered by this."

"Are you?" Emma asks, and this time it's genuine curiosity.

"Angered? A bit. Surprised? Not at all. Snow has always been resilient. It's both an obnoxious trait and an enviable one. That she found a way out of this before I could, though, well that seems appropriate, I suppose."

"Why?"

"Well, she's good and I'm evil, right?"

"I think you know by now that I don't buy the whole black and white thing."

Regina tilts her head in acceptance of this. "As for whether I'm angry, well, there's a part of me that wants her to be crying every moment of every day. There's a part of me that would like to know that she feels what I have."

"Just a part?"

Regina chuckles. "It's perhaps a bit strange, but I've found over the last few weeks that my care of what Snow White is or isn't doing has decreased considerably. She has her perfect little family, and there's nothing I can do about that nor am I sure that I'd even want to, anymore."

"Because?"

"So many questions," Regina murmurs. "Wasn't I asking about you?"

"Yeah, but humor me, anyway," Emma pleads as she puts a hand on the bag to stop it from swaying. Once it does, the hand returns to her side.

"Fine," Regina allows, and suddenly her posture has gone stiff like she thinks she's about to say something that she might get thrown back at her. Her walls are up just a bit. Not a lot, but enough for Emma to notice. "I'm not sure I even want to do anything to her anymore because it would hurt you and Henry and…and I don't want that. For either of you."

It's the kind of confession that couldn't have been made six weeks ago. Perhaps it wasn't even possible then, but things have changed and shifted and there's a spark jumping between them as they stare at each other.

Regina lowers her head, feeling embarrassment and rejection wash over her.

"Don't," Emma says.

"What?"

"Don't look away like that. Like you're…you have nothing...that means…it means everything to have someone…" She stops, takes a deep breath and then tries to start again. "Earlier this morning, you said that no one had ever been there for you just to be there. I haven't had a whole hell of a lot of people put me first, either. Neal chose destiny over me and my parents, well, we all know how that went…" she trails off, chewing her lip a bit.

"Your parents love you, Emma," Regina says softly. She steps closer to the blonde, close enough to touch her taped up hand. "Whatever else you might think about them or your relationship with them, they love you."

"Because I'm their daughter and they're supposed to."

"Because they do." Regina puts out her hands and places them gently on the sides of both of Emma's strong shoulders, the contact of her palms against Emma's bare skin warm and reassuring. "You know how I feel about them. You know I have no desire to ever speak well of the two of them so I need you to listen to me now so that I do not need to do it again, all right?"

Emma nods, her green eyes locked in Regina's caramel colored ones.

"About four weeks before your birth, your mother – without consulting with your father, I believe - sent an emissary to my castle. He was armed with a promise of a truce and peace and whatever I wanted as long as I would promise to not harm you. She offered me my titles and all of my land back."

"You turned her down?"

"I had her emissary beaten nearly to death and returned to her with a promise of my impending vengeance in hand," Regina states flatly.

Emma blinks. "All right, then. I guess that answers that question."

"Not for her it didn't. She didn't send any more men, but she did send…creatures. Entirely too many of them, to be honest. She kept trying and trying, offering me the sun and the stars and everything in between."

"To protect me."

"Oh yes. Her last message even offered me your kingdom. It was ridiculous, of course, and we both knew it, but it didn't matter to her; she had to try something and so she did. After that last message, she gave up, and I believe that's when she and your father went to see Rumplestiltskin."

"Which is when they walked right into his trap of a grand plan?"

"I'm afraid that we all walked into that," Regina drawls. "I was certainly his greatest fool, but we all took part in his puppet show."

"Right." Emma shakes her head. "All right, I get it; they loved me and wanted me. What I don't get is why they didn't keep me with them."

"Because they didn't want that life for you."

"You mean because they wanted me to save everyone."

Regina thinks for a moment and then says, "Henry told me once after you came to town and he'd over heard me say something about how you'd abandoned him that that wasn't true. He told me that what you'd done had been all about giving him his best shot. Well, though I was less than pleased with him – or you – when he said that, I think he was right, and I believe that's what Snow and Charming thought that they were doing for you."

"Why are you telling me this?" Emma asks, tilting her head. "Wouldn't it be easier – wouldn't it be vengeance – to turn me against my mother?"

"It would be, but as I said, I have no desire to hurt you. Not anymore," Her hand moves from Emma's left shoulder up to cup the blonde's cheek. She's more than a little surprised when she feels Emma dip towards her palm. "I know that I'm hardly an expert on being a mother or a daughter; I've failed at both –" she holds up her hand to stop the protest that is clearly bubbling on the tip of Emma's tongue. "But I believe that to their dying day, your parents – especially your mother - will regret having let you go. I believe that even with things working out as they'd expected them to, if they could change things and go back and have all that time with you, they would."

The words echo around in Emma's mind and for a moment, beneath the weight of the emotion and the feelings and the warmth, she almost can't breath. She just looks back at Regina and sees the honesty in her eyes.

"Who would have thought that you of all people would be the one helping me with my mommy and daddy issues," Emma chuckles. Her hand slides up to cover Regina's for a moment, and almost absently, her thumb rubs over Regina's knuckles. It's unintentional but no less intimate because of such.

"No one sane, certainly," Regina murmurs as she reluctantly pulls her hand away from Emma's and takes a step back and away from her. She's not sure where this sudden need to touch – and be touched by – the blonde sheriff has come from; she only knows that when they do touch, she feels this strange vibrating warmth in the middle of her chest. It feels good.

It feels right.

Still, Emma had made her feelings on the subject clear and she plans to respect the fear and wariness that both of them feel.

"Yeah," Emma nods, folding her hands into fists to keep them from shaking.

The room has suddenly gotten charged and heavy and awkward, and it's every bit the emotion stirring between them; the feeling that everything is continuing to shift and change, and though they can stop it if they choose to do so, it just might be better for both of them to just go with it.

It's the feeling that maybe they should just let things play out as they will.

Maybe they should let the changes happen and see what occurs next.

"Henry's probably wondering what's taking so long," Regina notes.

"Yeah, probably," Emma agrees.

"Then we'll meet you in the kitchen once you've taken the tape off of your hands and taken a shower," Regina instructs, taking a large step towards the open doorway that leads back towards the house. It's clear that she's trying to escape; clear that she's trying to put some air between them.

"Wait," the sheriff says suddenly.

She's about to ask why, but then she feels Emma's hand settle around her forearm. Her mouth opens to protest the hard grip, but then she's being spun back towards Emma and they're just staring at each other, green eyes on brown ones, then both of them trying to understand what this is.

Emma tilts her head and her lips part. Regina nods almost imperceptibly.

It's the strangest kind of silent agreement ever.

It's the understanding that this must involve both of them.

Emma moves forward, then, and when she kisses Regina, her lips are so very soft. Her hands reach up – one gently cradling Regina's neck and the other settled lightly on her cheek – and she pulls the brunette even closer to her.

It's salt and the faintest taste of orange juice.

It's sweat and the tangy cinnamon apple of lip-gloss.

It's gentle and exploratory, and Emma's the one who adds a bit of teeth, nipping slightly before running her tongue lightly over Regina's lips before she pushes inwards, wanting to taste and feel everything.

Arms tighten and fingers grip.

Regina moans and Emma chuckles against her lips.

Finally, after what seems like the shortest eternity ever to both of them, it's Regina who breaks away this time, her dark eyes wide and uncertain.

"What was that?" she gasps out.

"That was thank you," Emma breathes as she leans forward to press her forehead against Regina's. The feeling of being so very close to the former queen is damned near intoxicating. "You didn't have to, but you did anyway so thank you for putting my needs first. Thank you for putting _me_ first."

Regina lets out a sigh and for a few long seconds, just enjoys the contact. Part of her wants to ask if this means anything, if it changes anything (after all, just yesterday Emma had been insistent that starting anything during this bizarre therapy of theirs could only be considered a bad idea), but for once she fights against the urge to ruin a wonderful moment in time.

"Lunch," Emma says after almost two minutes of this, not yet moving away.

"Up at the house," Regina agrees. "And yes, you need a shower first."

Emma laughs, the sound loud and genuine "So noted." She moves back, then, breaking the physical contact and allowing Regina to step away.

Reluctantly, Regina does exactly that, again making her way to the door of the garage. "By the way, Sheriff," she husks out just before she exits the garage. "I approve of the apple flavored lip-gloss. Quite cheeky, my dear."

"What can I say, Your Majesty? I try."

They share one more smile, and then Regina is gone.

Leaving Emma to stare after her.

Leaving Emma to wonder why she isn't nearly as terrified as she should be.

**TBC...**

* * *

**For those interested, this chapter was originally supposed to contain the long and very in-depth Regina-Cora/Emma-foster system conversation, but for the sake of continued development of both of the ladies and their growing relationships (romantic and friendship), that got moved to the next chapter.  
**

**If you're so interested (I'm boring as hell and mostly just reblog pics of Lana and Jen all day), you can find me on Tumblr at sgtmac7.**


	18. 14

A/N: Sorry for the delay in posting, but consider my amends to be this over-sized and wordy chapter. Actually, hmm. Well, cheers?

Warnings: Neal, some salty language, some disturbing talk of child abuse both from Cora and the foster system and oh, Neal again.

**Enjoy!**

* * *

There's something rather interesting that tends to happen after you kiss a person: you often find that you want to do it again. You have this strange need to touch them and feel their skin against your own. You want to come up behind them, wrap your arms around their waist and press against them.

It's a burning desire, really, the almost core compulsion to be close.

Close enough for everything to melt together and become -

Emma lets out a loud groan of protest because these are dangerous thoughts and feelings and emotions and yes, dangerous desires, too.

After what had occurred between them in the garage, Emma had allowed Regina a several minute head start back to the house before she'd followed after. She'd then mumbled out a quick "I'll be right back" to Henry, and then retreated to the bathroom. It'd felt a bit like being a coward because all of the sudden, she hadn't wanted Henry or Regina to see her face. She hadn't wanted them to see the fifteen emotions rushing through her.

And so now here she is, standing under the showerhead, cold water dripping down her naked body, cleaning away the sweat and tension. The water is doing its job for her body, but it's doing absolutely nothing for her mind, which is a maddening swirl of conflict and fear and doubt.

To be fair and honest, not all of those things are about Regina. Some are about her parents, some are about Henry and some are about Neal.

There's the whole Savior of the world part stuck in there, too.

Still, Regina _is_ big part of all of the crazy going on in her mind right now.

It'd just seemed so natural to pull Regina back and into her arms. It'd felt so right to kiss her and hold her and just be close to her, and Emma can't help but wonder when this change between the two of them had happened.

Had it occurred because of one event? Had the day spent out at the bar with Henry and Regina altered them? Has it been happening all along?

Does it actually matter when or how it'd happened?

Yes, it does matter.

It matters because the one thing that Emma is absolute set and determined about is the desire to be there for Regina emotionally.

Yes, it might be nice (and _is_ nice, in fact) for both of them to touch and be touched by someone with gentle hands and no desire to cause harm (Emma finds it a bit strange how very confident she is that they're past those feelings), but she knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that what both of them actually need right now the most is someone to be willing to listen to the nightmares and then stay around when the tears start.

What both of them need more than anything else in the world is someone who will choose to stick around to listen to the darkness and pain even when it might be more convenient for them to simply turn and walk away.

Regina has certainly lacked this kind of support, but if Emma is completely honest with herself (and it's time to be such), so has she. Throughout her rather difficult life, people have always left her behind or pushed her forward into other things, meaning for her to stand and fight on her own.

Her relationships have always gone down that way, too.

The ones she'd tried to make mean something – and since Neal, there have been very few of those, indeed – have always ended up in tears and more abandonment because very few people – even the good and generally well-meaning ones - are strong enough to want to stick around when the closet opens and the darkest of the nightmares and secrets start pouring out.

Very few people in her life have ever wanted to even try to understand the pain that someone like her has been through. Very few want to really know about the hell that a woman as busted and broken as she is has gone through, Emma thinks as she turns the shower off. It's always been so much easier for all of those lovers and so-called friends to walk away with a shrug and a lie and it's always been safer for her to pretend like it never mattered.

But it did.

Of course it did.

Because they'd all just amounted to another suitcase in another hall.

That's how the song goes, right?

Well she's been sick of that tune for a very long time now.

A year ago, lonely and alone in a little apartment in Boston, she'd been so damned tired of friends and lovers walking away and leaving her to wonder what's wrong with her and what she had done to make them leave. She'd been so over it all and yet so very much aware of the lack of a way to change her fate in that regard. It'd just seemed to be the way of her life.

And then Henry had knocked on her door.

Things _had_ gotten better for her though once she'd arrived in Storybrooke and found Mary Margaret and Ruby. No, they hadn't been lovers (she shudders even thinking that considering what she knows now), but they had been something else that she'd had so very little of: true friendship.

Much of that has been lost now, Emma thinks as knot of sadness settles in her belly, thanks to having found out the truth about her parentage. The special closeness that she'd shared with the woman that she now knows to be her mother has been lost, and Emma's honestly not sure that it can ever really be regained. She's not sure that they can ever be how they were.

Because Mary Margaret isn't just some timid schoolteacher in love with a weak-minded amnesiac. No, she's Snow White and he's Prince Charming and they're her parents and God, as much as they might both wish otherwise, mothers and daughters don't talk in the same way that roommates do.

She misses her roommate.

She feels like shit for feeling this way because she'd spent twenty-eight years wanting parents and now she has them, and yet part of her would give just about anything to turn back the clock and change things up.

Part of her.

The other part knows that things have happened for the better.

The woman she is now is better than the woman she was a year ago. Back then she'd been hardened by life and cynical and mistrusting of everything and everyone. She'd seen bad guys around every corner and she'd stopped believing in the very idea of hope and love and even redemption.

Now, all of these emotions and ideals walk along beside her like hesitant new friends. Her relationships with them are fragile, but they're stubborn and the people who have shown her the truth of these things are persistent.

Henry is persistent.

He believes in them and by the pure force of his faith and almost against her will, she finds herself wanting to believe in them as well.

She wants to believe that she can find hope, love and redemption.

She knows that Regina wants that, too.

Regina's path towards faith in these things is even harder than her own, but the last year has changed the former queen as well.

A year ago Regina had been closed down and completely hidden behind impenetrable walls and impossible high heels. A year ago everything had been about power and control and angles. She'd been trying to protect herself in all of the wrong ways, but they'd been the only ways she'd known.

Now, she's no longer the Mayor and she's no longer the Evil Queen.

She's just Regina Mills.

Imperfect mother, devastated daughter and heartbroken woman.

And Emma is beginning to realize that she actually really likes Regina.

Really likes her.

Fucking hell.

Emma drops her head against the cool tile of the shower. The water is off now, and so she's just standing naked in the stall, icy cold droplets dripping down her as she tries to get her emotions and thoughts under control.

She's certain that eventually she and Regina will need to talk about what had occurred in the garage. Maybe not immediately because the foreboding of tonight's' impending conversation about Cora is already too much for both of them. Eventually, though, the question of why Emma had pulled her back and kissed her will be asked again, and she has a feeling that saying that she'd just wanted to thank Regina for being there won't be enough to explain why she'd feel the absolute need to be close to her in that moment.

She wonders what she'll say then.

What will Regina say?

Will they try to push everything back and away or will they discuss taking a leap of faith that she knows for a fact that both of them will be terrified of?

Is this madness to even consider these thoughts? Yes, probably.

A day ago she'd been so dead-set against the idea of anything non-platonic growing between them. This is therapy and friendship, she'd decided. It would be wrong to allow it to become anything more than that. It could hurt them both and cause greater harm than good.

It could destroy them both.

Nothing has changed.

Everything has changed.

Because in that maddeningly emotional moment in the garage, in that electric moment where the once cold as ice and dark as obsidian former Evil Queen had stepped away from her hatred of Snow White in order to offer her comfort, Emma had understood that the thing between them hadn't been about doctor and patient or Hero and Villain at all; in that moment she'd understood that it had all been about the damaged lives that lay behind them like the broken ruins of a temple long ago sacked and defiled.

It had been about the ties between them, the things that they could both understand and see better than anyone else ever could. It hadn't mattered what had created their damaged lives in that moment; all that had mattered was the fact that someone had actually chosen to stay and listen.

Someone wasn't, for once, choosing to run away.

This is what's between them. This is their bond.

Perhaps this is what has always connected them, even when the emotions that had sparked like electricity had been bent more towards hatred and disgust. Even then, she thinks they'd understood each other.

A year ago, Emma would have been repulsed by this realization, but now, she understands that that which had once acted as opposing magnets seems to be drawing them closer together, and it terrifies her down to her core.

Because she _has_ spent so long looking for someone who won't run away when the darkness spills from her lips and the bleeds from her pores.

"You're thinking too much," she says to herself with a nervous laugh. And she is; she's putting too much emotion and worry into all of this. She's probably putting too much weight onto her relationship with Regina.

And the kiss.

It'd been just a kiss of gratitude. That's what she'd told Regina.

Why does it have to be more than that?

She's standing still in the middle of the shower, but even she can feel herself frantically backpedaling away from the conclusions and understandings that she'd come to just seconds earlier. Even she knows that this is all about fear of putting herself too far out and then getting rejected for her efforts.

Of being abandoned again.

Part of her laughs cruelly at this idea; what right would Regina have to reject her? The other part of her, though, the part she actually wants to be and chooses to be, pushes this away because she understands so damned well how little control either of them have ever had over their lives.

Whatever happens or doesn't happen between them going forward, it does so because they choose it to occur or not occur and not because anyone or anything else is telling them what to do or how to do it.

She's done with allowing destiny to determine her life and the people she is allowed to love and be with. She's done with permitting manipulations to pave the path for her. It's time for her fate to be her own, Emma thinks.

A sudden knock on the door pulls her from her thoughts. And right as she was about to break into the rousing anthem from _Les Mis_, she grouses.

"Emma?" she hears Henry call out. "You okay in there?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine, kid. Why?"

"You've been in there forever. Mom sent me to tell you lunch is ready."

She groans; she must have been locked away in here for far too long if Regina had sent Henry to collect her. "I'll be right out," she calls back.

She waits to see if he'll reply, but when all she's greeted by is silence, she blows out a breath and steps out into the cold air of the bathroom. The one downside of icy showers is the aftermath, and well; her body is feeling it quite vividly now. She shudders as she grabs for the towel and wraps it around her slightly shaking frame. A glance up at the mirror and she almost laughs because the woman she sees staring back at her isn't the Savior.

And she isn't strong.

But dammit if she doesn't want to be.

Needs to be.

And dammit if she won't find a way to be for Regina.

Maybe for herself, too.

* * *

"Is she all right?" Regina asks with a lifted up eyebrow as Henry returns from the hallway. He drops himself with a heavy thud upon the barstool and perches his head upon his hands to gaze up at her. She has a moment of thought to remind her that his neck can hold his head up just fine, but she bites that down because her own mother had said that to her once.

She'll be damned if she ever repeats anything of Cora's to Henry ever again.

It's a bit amazing to her how sudden this emotional shift within her is occurring. A little over six weeks ago, the very idea of thinking bad about her mother would have sent waves of panic rushing through her. Sure, in her more lucid moments she's always been aware of the darkness that Cora had brought into her life, but the need to love and be loved has always won out.

And her mother had loved her better than anyone else ever had.

Right?

No.

No, she hadn't.

"I guess so," Henry says, pulling her away from her realizations. She rewards her son with a bigger smile than he's probably expecting considering the odd look he throws her, but then he doesn't know just how afraid she is of walking down the path that will lead to the truth about her mother.

She can feel dread settling in her, grinding her ribs together in a way that reminds her uncomfortably of the nightmare she'd had a night earlier.

The one of her mother nearly murdering her when she'd been fourteen.

"She said she'd be out in a minute," he finishes.

"Good," Regina nods. When they'd returned to the house, Henry had been in the process of setting the grill up to make cheese sandwiches. Now, they're all made and waiting, stacked neatly atop of each other on the table while tomato soup sits simmering in a large pot on the stove. "Well then why don't we get seated; Emma can join us as soon as she's ready to."

"Okay," he hops off the stool and is about to make his way over to the table when the buzzing of a cell gets his attention. He shifts his gaze over across the counter and to where Emma's phone is sitting, vibrating rapidly. "It's just my dad again," Henry announces once he's taken a look at the screen.

His expression sours a bit as he says this, not because of any unpleasant emotion he has towards Neal (Regina has come to understand that while Henry has made significant progress in being able to see that some people such are herself aren't pure evil, he still struggles to comprehend that someone like Emma or Neal aren't all good, either; that is until they let him down), but because he's anticipating a negative reaction from Regina. By his comment, it's clear that he knows that his father has been calling frequently.

Calling for him.

Regina stares at the phone for a long moment, and then, in a swirl of what can only be insanity, she reaches for the phone and picks it up. Her lips settling into a thin line of irritation, she stabs at the ANSWER button.

"What are you doing?" Henry demands. His bright green eyes are wide and afraid, like maybe he thinks that she might be able to find a way to throw some kind of magic at his biological father over the phone-line.

Oh, if only that were actually possible.

She ignores him and puts the cell to her ear. "Mr. Cassidy." It's a coolly delivered statement instead of a mild question meant to invite further conversation. Her tone is unimpressed, annoyed and bothered. He's a nuisance that she'd rather not deal with and she wants him to know it.

There's a long pause and she thinks that she can almost hear the wheels turning in Neal's head. A part of her – okay, most of her - hopes that he's a more than a little bit frightened right now because well, he should be.

"Regina?" he finally says, his confusion apparent. She almost corrects him on his use of such a familiar name for her, but then chooses to let it pass. She'd picked up the phone because it's time to finally deal with this – with him and his request to see Henry. It's highly likely that demanding that he call her something like Your Majesty or Ms. Mills would get in the way of such.

That doesn't mean she's going to let him completely off the hook, however.

"You would be correct; it's good to see that your father's comprehension skills were properly passed along," she snipes.

"Mom," she hears Henry caution.

"Where's Emma?" Neal asks, and she hears a hint of suspicious worry there.

She almost tells him that the Savior is buried in the backyard.

Not that this place exactly has one of those.

A beach, though. There's lots of that around and really, if that failed her, she could always just toss a body into the Atlantic and -

No, perhaps it's best not to antagonize him just for the hell of it.

"Emma's in the shower," Regina replies with considerable chill in her voice. "And you want something from both of us, I believe."

"I…"

"You want to see my son." The tone she's using right now is the one she would have used on a peasant who had come to her court many years with the request for something absurd. Something above his station and right.

"I want to see _my_ son," Neal corrects. "He's…he's my son." There's a pause and then he finishes with a quiet somewhat unsure, "Too. He's my son, too."

It takes everything she has not to snarl. "You didn't raise him."

"She didn't, either," Neal reminds her.

"Because of you."

"That's between her and I," he retorts, and she wonders if he's starting to get his confidence back. Strange, she thinks, that he gets it back while he's trying to defend himself about something that is indefensible.

And it is.

Because the wicked and horrible things that you do to the people you claim to love, the ones that you're supposed to protect and take care of, those are the things beyond reasonable explanation or understanding.

She'd murdered her father to enact the curse.

There is no forgiveness or redemption for that.

Not from within herself, anyway.

"Perhaps," Regina agrees with a cold smile that doesn't meet her eyes. "But my son having any relationship with you is between she and I."

"Mom," Henry says again, and she thinks he's starting to get angry.

She wonders, then, if it was a mistake to pick up Emma's cell. Not because this rather uncomfortable conversation with Neal Cassidy isn't going exactly as anyone sensible might have expected it to, but because the risk of damaging the finally repairing relationship with Henry is so very terrible.

And so very easy. Funny how easy the worst things in life are.

She sighs.

Because the bitter and inescapable truth is that Henry actually wants a relationship with this man. A man he considers to be his father.

Neal doesn't deserve the title. He doesn't deserve to have Henry in his life, but then perhaps none of them – starting with herself – actually do.

She can hear Neal sputtering out some kind of angry protest, something about a promise Emma had made to him, but the words fade away; instead, she's thinking about the days before Henry had taken the bus to Boston.

She thinks about how closed down he'd been. How much he'd viewed every rule she'd enacted and every decision she'd made as an attack.

As an invitation to a war that she hadn't known they'd been fighting.

She thinks about how close to losing him forever she'd come.

She can't let that happen again.

She won't let that happen again.

"Mr. Cassidy," she interrupts. He falls silent immediately, and well, that's something, at least. "What exactly are you proposing?"

"Proposing?"

"You want to see Henry. When? How? Where?"

There's another pause, and she's certain that he's trying to catch up to the strange change in the direction of the conversation. A glance over at Henry and the confusion showing on his face suggests he's trying to do the same.

He's looking at her like he's trying to find the lie. It breaks her heart that this is still true, but then, what did she expect? They are better – each day seems to be repairing them more and more, but nothing heals overnight.

"I'd like to take him for a weekend," Neal finally answers, his tone hesitant. "Maybe bring him here to New York and take him to a baseball game."

Her first instinct is to snap out an immediate, "absolutely not" but then she hears the sound of footsteps coming closer, and thinks about the last six weeks, and the woman she was and the woman she is now.

The woman that she desperately wants to be.

She sees a still wet-haired and dripping but now dressed in for once loose jeans and a hoodie Emma enter the kitchen, her eyebrow lifting when she spots her cell phone pressed against Regina's ear. "Who is it?" she mouths.

"Neal," Henry tells her with what looks like a sickly and uncomfortable smile, and Emma's eyebrow goes from lifted to being launched up somewhere deep in her blonde hairline. She looks almost like she's about to have some kind of panic attack. It's far more amusing than it should be.

"Regina," Neal prompts, his voice a frantic plea. "Look, come on, I promise I won't hurt him or let any harm come to him. Not ever, all right? I just…I want to get know my boy. I don't think that's too much to ask, okay?"

"How do I know…how do _we_ know that you won't just disappear with him? Your track record for staying where you should isn't exemplary."

"I wouldn't do that to her. To Emma. I wouldn't."

Her eyes flicker back up to Emma and she can't help herself from smiling just a bit when she sees the anxious way that the blonde is moving around.

"You let her go to prison for you."

It's not really her place to stand up for Emma like this, and yet she feels the need to do so because Emma's been spending so damned much time trying to be mature and understanding and forgiving. She herself has benefited from such, but suddenly she finds the need to stand in front of Emma even if she won't do it for herself. Not that Emma looks terribly appreciative of this.

In fact, she rather looks like she's lost about three shades of color in her face. Her hand reaches out for the phone as if to demand that Regina hand it over to her, but the former queen refuses with a sharp shake of her head.

"You let her grow up without parents," Neal shoots back.

Touché.

He's right, of course; her oversized role in Emma's damaged childhood has been haunting her for a good long while now. Ever since she'd started to realize just how much she actually cares about the sheriff. If Neal is culpable for Emma's damage, she believes that she is equally if not doubly so.

Not that she's about to let the little bastard know that.

"Fine," she grunts out. "I will speak to Emma, and we will decide."

"That's not –" he stops, then, as if thinking better of his words. As if finally realizing that he doesn't actually have any control of this situation. The adoption of Henry had been as legal as it could be; Neal's paternal rights had been severed thanks to him fleeing the country as a fugitive.

He has no rights – legal or otherwise - to Henry.

But this isn't really about legalities; it's about doing right by her child.

"Okay," he says softly. "When?"

"When what?"

"When will I hear from you? Or her? I asked her –"

"A couple days ago; I know. You cost her a phone." She looks over at Emma and smirks at her. Unfortunately, the blonde isn't at all amused with this.

"She's _that_ pissed at me?"

"I'm that pissed at you," Regina retorts. "As for when, Emma will let you know our decision by this evening."

"Thank you," he says, and he sounds both surprised and sincere.

"Don't thank me yet," she replies. And then, because she has no desire to exchange pleasantries with this man, she simply hangs up the phone.

And then sighs and turns to face Emma. "Lunch is ready," she says in the same voice that she had once used to call a City Hall meeting to order.

"Fuck lunch," Emma growls out. "What the hell was that?"

"Your ex…whatever the hell is called to ask if he could take Henry for the weekend," Regina bristles, choosing to ignore the profanities that had just poured from Emma's lip. Typically, the blonde is better about not cursing in front of Henry, but well, Regina supposes she has a right to her frustration.

"My…he…what?"

"Eloquent, dear."

"Mom," Henry says for the third time, and for once, he doesn't sound disappointed, but rather exasperated. And perhaps a bit bemused.

Because he recognizes when his mother is playing with someone.

And yes, she probably is playing with Emma just a little bit right now because some old habits – ones such as screwing with people just for her own twisted amusement - really do die hard.

"Regina," Emma warns. "Why did you pick up my phone?"

"Because the last time you did, you broke yours," Regina answers as plainly as she can. She tries to sound unimpressed, but the truth is that she feels a bit unsettled because Emma actually looks completely pissed off.

She wonders if she'd misgauged the situation, wonders if there's more to Emma's anger than just surprise and frustration. Is she afraid of Neal taking off with Henry or she is annoyed that Regina had dared to speak for her?

"He could have waited a few more days," Emma insists.

"He could have," Regina agrees. "But he was going to keep calling until you picked up and…" she stalls out, then, because she doesn't want to have this conversation in front of Henry. Not just about why she'd answered the phone, but the one about whether they should let Neal see him.

It's a conversation that frightens her down to her toes because she worries that if she and Emma agree to let Henry go stay with Neal, she'll be willingly allowing her son to slip away from her just a little bit more.

Still, she'd promised Neal that they would have it, and for Henry's sake, they will. For him, she suddenly understands just how much she'll do.

She realizes for the first time that she would let him go if it meant that he just might find it within his heart to love her more for it.

This realization is enough to make the air catch in her throat.

It's enough to make her want to throw up.

Which apparently Emma notices because suddenly the anger and tension are all bleeding away from her. "Okay," she says. "So lunch is ready?"

"It is," Regina replies with a small smile, unable to completely hide her gratitude at change in subject. Her eyes meet with Emma's for a moment – just a moment – of understanding, and then, "How was your shower?"

"Cold."

"Cold? Did you need a cold shower for some reason?"

It's something like teasing, and a bit like flirting and the look on Henry's face suggests that he can't figure out what the hell had just happened.

But Regina gets it; this is that weird understanding that seems to be flowing like water between she and Emma all of the sudden.

They'll talk about this later. Sometime after lunch.

When it's just the two of them and they can both worry together.

Emma smirks at her. "Nope; I just like cold…things." She frowns at the end of this as her attempt to be clever collapses beneath her.

"Oh, I'm sure you do, dear," Regina lobs back, amused by Emma's inability to keep up with the banter. "But, if you're done with cold for the time being, there's hot soup over there. Or at least it was hot before you decided to take a twenty-minute shower. It's probably just lukewarm now."

"We can warm it up again," Henry assures them both, his eyes going from mother to mother like he's still trying to figure out what's going on.

He knows that something has changed.

Something between them.

He just has no idea what it is.

Considering that they don't know what it is, either, that's probably a damned good thing when you think about it.

Honestly, Regina would rather not.

"Yes, we can, dear," Regina confirms, her low husky voice gentle and almost soothing. She reaches out and touches the top of his head, her fingers weaving into his hair. When he doesn't pull away, doesn't try to distance himself as he once might have, she allows her hand to linger for a moment longer than is probably necessary. Finally, "Why don't the two of you get started on the sandwiches while I get the soup re-warmed?"

"Grilled cheese sandwiches without soup?" Emma frowns. She looks at Henry and shakes her head, and then he mimics the motion.

"That's just wrong," he announces.

It's their not at all subtle way of saying that they'll wait for her to join them.

That they want her to be at the table with them.

As a family.

She nods her head slowly, trying to blink back the tears. "All right, then."

* * *

"Can I go read my comic books out on the deck?" Henry asks about three seconds after he's jammed the last bit of his grilled cheese sandwich into his mouth. He's looking right up at Regina when he asks the question.

Because everyone knows that she's the one who runs the show at the table.

"Fine," Regina says softly. "But you do the dishes tonight instead."

"Okay," he agrees as he wipes off his mouth and stands up. They both know what this is about; he's trying to give them time to talk about Neal.

What he lacks in subtlety, though, he more than makes up for with the bright beaming smile that he throws towards both of his mothers as he leaves the kitchen, the door to the deck swinging shut loudly behind him.

"Neal wants to have Henry for a whole weekend," Regina says as she brings the lunch plates over to the sink and hands them one by one to Emma. Her eyes track out through the window to where Henry is sitting; he's in the chair that she's certain she'll be in later this evening, a comic on his lap.

"A whole weekend," Emma repeats, her lips curling into a frown.

"I take it you're not anymore happy about this idea than I am?"

"Understatement," Emma chuckles. She turns the water off, and then pushes the last of the plates into the dishwasher and closes it.

"But?" Regina prompts.

"But I think…I think maybe we should consider it."

"We need to more than consider it," Regina counters. "You've been considering it for the last two days. We need to decide yes or no now."

"Yeah, I know. So, where's your head on this?"

"Am I allowed to be honest?" she queries, seeming a bit hesitant and unsure about just what's acceptable to say and feel here.

"Yeah, of course," Emma replies.

"I don't want this. I don't want him to spend time with Henry and I don't want Henry to want to spend time with him. I don't want him in our lives."

"Neither do I, but I'm not sure that's what best for Henry."

Regina swallows hard. She looks out the window again, her eyes settling on Henry as he focuses intently on his comic book. Softly, she asks, "What is?"

"You think I know?"

"Better than I do."

"No," Emma replies, her tone adamant. "Believe me, no. I don't have this whole mothering thing figured at all, and I sure as hell am not anymore mom of the year than you are. Less really. I just…I want to do right by him."

"And you believe letting him spend time with your ex is that?"

"You know, I think that might just be the nicest thing you've called him."

Regina's eyebrow lifts up in bemusement as she leans almost casually across the counter. Well, casually for her is still a bit stiff and proper, but it's a whole lot better than ramrod straight. "Mm. Answer the question, dear."

"Neal's no threat to him. Or us."

"Mr. Cassidy implied the same thing during my conversation with him."

"Yeah, about that, seriously Regina, what the hell was that?"

Regina looks away for a moment, a frown lighting on her lips. Finally, "It was a bad attempt at trying to help you deal with something you couldn't."

"I don't understand."

"You clearly didn't want to speak to him or make this decision on your own so I…so I tried to help and I just…that's not what you wanted and…" she trails off, looking about as uncertain as Emma has ever seen her.

It occurs to Emma then just how new and uncomfortably strange it must be for Regina to be trying to think of someone else before herself. How oddly unsettling it must to be to be so uncertain about how to do that without stepping over boundary lines that she'd never noticed before.

It's a bit strange for Emma, too, to see the rapid changes occurring; from the Mayor who had shown little care for anyone aside from herself when they'd first met to the corner former Evil Queen who had tried to curse her perceived competition to sleep in order keep Henry to the unsteady but damn well trying her best to do right mother that Regina is now.

It occurs to her, then, that Regina hadn't taken the phone call just to bully and push Neal around. No, she'd done it solely because she'd been trying to protect Emma in the same way that Emma had been trying to protect her.

"Hey," Emma reassures her. "I appreciate the attempt, but…well, unfortunately Neal is a part of my life and I don't think he's going to be going away again. I have to learn how to deal with him. We both do."

Regina clears her throat; her shoulders tensing as she pulls her emotions back in and steadies herself anew. "Indeed," she agrees as she stands up straight again, the tension of the impending decision tightening her. "So, what are we going to do, then? Do we let him have Henry for a weekend?"

"Are you ready to let him go for a few days?"

"Never," Regina admits. "But…but I think I'm supposed to." That strange discomforting darkness passes over her face again, and Emma gets the distinct impression that the different parts of Regina are at war right now.

The Mayor, the Queen and the Mother.

She wonders who's winning.

"We don't have to do anything before we're ready to. He's our son first," Emma insists. "And like I said, Neal isn't going anywhere, unfortunately."

"I don't want to be selfish anymore," Regina states.

"Loving Henry isn't selfish."

"But making him unhappy just to keep myself happy is."

Emma thinks of the days before this conversation would have ever been possible; she thinks of an angry and cold woman who would have burned down the world before she would have let anyone else lay claim to her child.

She thinks of holding that same woman in the garage the night after Regina's first nightmare. Sure, that hadn't ended well for either of them, but the point is that everything had begun to really change that night.

Regina had begun to look into her past and see the darkness staring back.

She'd begun to see the person she'd become; the one she'd never wanted to be and had allowed herself to fall into through her own weakness.

The problem is, Emma thinks with a frown, Regina doesn't seem to realize that falling is only the first part of the story. The second part is the rising up, and the former queen doesn't seem to be giving herself credit for that.

She doesn't seem to be willing to give herself credit for the fact that simply by trying to be good enough for her son, she is doing exactly that.

"What do you want to do?" Emma prompts.

"I want to make him happy."

"That's not always possible," Emma reminds. "You know that. You're twice the mother I'll ever be, Regina; go with your instincts here, and I'll follow."

The former queen takes a deep breath and then says softly, "We should allow it. But just for a weekend. And with no promises of it occurring again."

"I'm cool with that. Anything else?"

"I'd prefer they do their weekend back in Storybrooke."

"Really?"

"I may despise your parents, but I trust that they will keep an eye out for Henry and…and I think he would like to see them." Her lips press together for a moment, and Emma can tell that Regina's struggling against her actual feelings about this; it's clear that she no more wants Henry to have a relationship with Snow and David than she wants him to have one with Neal.

And yet because she is so desperately trying to be better person and a better mother for Henry and hopefully for herself, too, she bites back whatever others thoughts she'd had and waits for Emma to reply.

"Okay, that…that sounds fair and good and all of that other stuff."

"Other stuff, dear?"

"Eh, it's been a long day." She shrugs her shoulders and smiles. "If you recall, Your Majesty, I didn't sleep terribly well last night."

"I'm sorry," the former queen says immediately. It's enough to make Emma want to kick herself because really, she'd just been teasing Regina. She should know better, though; right now Regina is too raw and too vulnerable and every perceived bad deed is hitting her like bricks to the chest.

"Don't be," Emma replies with what she hopes is a grin big enough to defuse the darkness she sees creeping over Regina. "Even if I hadn't woken you up from your nightmare, I was still going to end up out in the Living Room watching Lucy and Desi all night. Which means I still would have woken with a stiff neck. Doesn't mean I'm not whooped now."

"Then why don't you get some rest? We can deal with everything else later tonight," Regina proposes, her face lightening up a bit. What she doesn't say directly is that they night and conversation they have ahead for them – the one that looms over both of them likely an overly sharp guillotine – is something that will likely require all of the emotional and physical energy.

"Sounds like a plan," Emma answers with a yawn. "What about you?"

"I think I'm just going to read for a bit. I have something of a headache."

"Want me to grab you some aspirin?"

"No need; I can get it myself," Regina assures her. She lifts her hand up, then, hesitating for a slight moment before she places it on Emma's cheek.

"What?" the sheriff asks, her brow furrowing.

"I want to do right by _you_ as well. I don't know exactly why, but…" she swallows then, like she can't quite get the words out. Like she believes that maybe if she says exactly what she's thinking or feeling, she'll get rejected.

"You mean something to me, too," Emma states, her hand lifting to cover up Regina's. "And no, I don't know exactly why yet, either."

"I did such terrible things to you," Regina states.

"I'm hardly alone in that."

Regina laughs, the sound sudden and sharp. "Was that supposed to make me feel better?" She almost sounds incredulous.

"No," Emma replies, her green eyes suddenly intense. "I think it was supposed to tell you that you need to stop worrying about what you did to me. I know you're sorry for whatever role you played in my life –"

"Whatever role? I –"

"I know what you did to me," Emma tells her. "I also know that you were far from alone in fucking me over. And what I believe now is that you wouldn't hurt me again. I believe you wouldn't let harm come to me. Not anymore."

"I wouldn't," Regina confirms.

"Then really, Regina, that's all I need to know. We can sort out all the other pieces of my childhood and your childhood and everything else later."

"You mean tonight."

"Yeah, I guess I do." She lifts Regina's hand up and off of her face then and brings it to her lips. It's an incredibly impulsive and risky move – especially considering the fact that if Henry were to turn his head and look through the window, he'd be able to see exactly what she was doing to his adoptive mother – but she can't quite stop herself from pressing a light kiss onto the warm skin there. "I forgive you," she says, her words muffled and low.

"Why?"

"Because I do," Emma says simply and with an almost careless shrug of her shoulders. "And that's my choice to make." She lets go of Regina's hand, then, and steps away from the surprised looking former queen. "Why don't you let Henry know the 'good news', huh?" she says before yawning again.

"Of course," Regina murmurs.

She watches Emma go, hears the door closed and then just keeps staring because a part of her mind refuses to believe that there is actually someone as impossibly frustrating, complex and contradictory as Emma Swan.

But there is.

There just…is.

After a moment, she turns away and reaches up into the cabinet above the dishwasher. She pulls out the bottle of aspirin that she'd stowed there, pours three into her palm and then tosses them into her mouth. She can feel the migraine – this time caused by fear and confusion and even the thrill of hope and several other frightening emotions – swirling around in her skull.

Because forgiveness – true cognizant and aware forgiveness - is one of those things that she's wanted for so very long and received so very seldom.

It's almost too good to be true. It's not at all deserved.

But she can still feel the slight wetness of Emma's lips on her hand.

And she knows that deserve it or not, Emma had meant what she'd said.

It's a terrifying realization.

But then, almost everything about the sheriff is.

She takes a gulp of water, swallows down the pills and then steps outside on to the deck, a large smile appearing on her lips.

"So?" he asks, looking up at her with hope in his eyes. Enough so that she knows that even though she's not happy about Neal getting to have him for a weekend, it was the right choice to make because _Henry_ is happy about it.

"If I tell you what we decided, will you read to me like you used to?" she queries. It's a strange question to ask, but she means it as much as she's ever meant anything. A time ago, before the book and everything else, him reading his comics to her had been kind of their thing. She'd never really listened or understood, but his voice and his excitement had been enough.

She's willing to let go of him a little and it's the right thing to do.

But she wants part of him back, too.

And so she smiles and hopes he sees how much she needs this.

"Yeah," he says. "Okay. It's Spiderman."

"I like Spiderman," she tells him, though he could have said Daffy Duck.

"And you have to do the voices with me," he tells her.

She thinks that she hides her surprise reasonably well. "All right."

"Cool. You want to be Peter or Doc Ock?"

"Whichever one you'd like me to be, dear."

"You be Peter."

Her eyebrow jumps because she'd assumed that he would push her into the role of the villain, but then he's looking at her with the kind of smile that reminds her that he's Emma 's son, too. Like he knows what she's thinking.

Like he's wondering when she'll stop expecting the worst from him.

She nods her head and then lightly settles herself in the chair that Emma will likely occupy later. "You want to know our decision first?" she asks.

He thinks about this for a moment and then shakes his head. "After."

It's yet another surprising answer from a child who seems as intent as his birth mother on challenging her every expectation of him. This time, she doesn't even try to hide her relief at his words. She offers him a watery smile, and then says, "All right then, shall we, Doctor?"

He grins up at her and then flips open the comic book. He shows her the brightly colored panel and then in a loud exuberant voice says, "Crack!"

* * *

Emma's barely out of her bedroom when Henry barrels into her and hugs her tightly around the midsection. "Thanks," he says.

"For what?" she asks, her hand going down to touch his hair.

"For agreeing to let me spend time with my dad."

"Oh, that." She tries to head the fact that she's about as thrilled about this as Regina is, but her smile is too plastic to be real, and he sees through her.

"I know," he says. "But mom told me that you're going to ask him to take me back to Storybrooke for a few days, and it'll be nice to see everyone."

"I bet," she replies. "And you know what, you can do some recon for me."

"Recon?"

"Well, eventually we're all going to want to return to Storybrooke."

"Oh, you want to see if everyone will be cool with mom coming back."

"Yeah. That's as much her home as it is ours."

"So it's Operation…" he frowns.

"No operation names, kid," Emma laughs. "In fact, don't consider this to be one of our operations at all, all right? You're just…feeling the situation out if you're able to. I want you to have a good time not worry about…stuff."

"Yeah, okay. So mom told me you agreed to it, but she didn't say when."

"I don't think we decided on when. Maybe next weekend?"

"Cool." He turns his head, then, to glance towards the Living Room. Emma can just barely make out what appears to be the form of Regina sound asleep on the couch, the now familiar scratchy brown blanket once again curled over her legs. "Is she okay with this? She seemed kind of…upset?"

"She's okay with whatever makes you happy. We both are."

He frowns at her like he knows that that's not much of an answer. "Am I hurting her by wanting to see my dad? Like I hurt her when I wanted to be with you? I don't…I don't want to do that."

It takes everything Emma has for her mouth not to drop open; she's pretty sure that an eleven year old isn't supposed to be asking a question like this.

Even if it is a valid question considering how much his previous rejections of Regina – especially after Emma had come to town - _had_ hurt the former queen. That he seems to be aware of this – even in the way that an eleven-year-old boy is – is surprising and unsettling to Emma.

It's also just a little bit of a relief as well because there had been a time in there when Emma had wondered about Henry's ability to dismiss his adoptive mother's feelings as unimportant and invalid. For a while there, he'd thrown all the love she'd pushed towards him back at her.

He's just a child and children can be selfish and cruel, but yeah, even if only deep down, it's nice to know that her son has always had a good heart.

Still, she pushes back with, "Why would you think that? Did you mom say anything to make you think she was hurt?"

"No, but…she asked me to read to her," he says, his frown deepening as he turns everything over in his mind. "She hasn't asked for that in years."

"Have _you_ offered in years?"

"No." Another deep frown as he thinks about this. "I was so mad at her for so long; I didn't really want to share anything with her." Then, for a moment looking like he's about to cry, he says softly, "I did hurt her again, didn't I?"

"Henry…"

"Wait, am I hurting _you_ now, too?" he asks, sounding panicked and frightened in a way that makes Emma's heart want to explode out of her chest. "Because I don't want to go stay with Neal if I'm hurting –"

"No," Emma breaks, grabbing at her son and pulling him closer to him. She gives him a quick hug and then states, "No. Look at me, okay? Your mom and I, we're both all right with this. We're not hurt; we understand."

"Then why did she want me to read to her? Why does she look so sad?"

She considers his question for a beat before replying with, "I don't know a whole hell – I don't know a lot about parents, Henry; you know I didn't grow up with any. But I do know that when you love someone, your w memories with and of them are important. I think the ones she has of you reading to her probably mean a lot to her and you're growing up and well…"

She trails off, then, because no, she doesn't have the memories Regina has, but Henry is growing up and she's suddenly struck by just how much of his life she hadn't been around for. How many memories she doesn't have.

"Emma?" he asks as he steps out of her arms and looks up at her.

"I'm fine. It's just…we just want what's best for you. We want you happy."

"And you want what's best for my mom?" Henry says more than asks, his head tilted slightly to the side as he regards her with a look that's half curiosity and half certainty. "You want my mom to be happy, too, right?"

Like he knows that there's something going on between them.

"I do," she admits as she jams her hands into the pockets of her jeans.

"Because we're family?"

"Yeah, kid, because we're family."

It's an underwhelming and not completely accurate answer, but it seems to satisfy him for the time being, and she's glad of that because how could she even begin to explain the seismic shifts that have occurred between she and Regina when she herself doesn't understand them or what they mean.

They'd come here to help Regina conquer the ghosts and demons of her past, and though the first weeks had been difficult and hard due to her stubborn refusal to open up and the last several have brought them several moments of extreme pain and emotion thanks to the fact that once Regina had let the walls start coming down, the damn had broken wide open, the reality is that this whole thing is working; Regina is finally beginning to heal.

Something else is happening, too, though, and Emma thinks that it has everything to do with the fact that she, too, just might finally be starting to heal up from her own life-incurred battle wounds and damage.

Maybe she's even beginning to open herself up to –

No, best not to think of that.

Not now, anyway.

Not while she's standing in front of their son who is watching her so intently. Like he can see right into her.

"What do you say we let your mom sleep for a bit longer and get dinner started ourselves?" Emma suggests, flashing him a big smile. It's partly meant to change the subject, but mostly it's because a kid his age shouldn't be bogged down in such heavy emotions and thoughts as these.

"Tacos?" he offers up.

"Yeah, I think we have the fixings for that."

"Cool," he says again, just before reaching out and hugging her once more, this time a bit harder and with a bit more emotion.

"Okay, what was that for this time?" she asks.

"For not giving up on her. I knew you wouldn't."

She thinks to tell him how much more complicated than that it is and has been; none of the progress that she and Regina have made over the last six almost seven weeks would have been possible without Regina having finally allowed herself to heal from her many wounds. Emma knows for a fact that all of the patience and understanding in the world would have amounted to nothing without the former queen having somehow found the strength within herself to finally face the darkened shadows of her gruesome past.

But Regina had found the strength, and really, that's all that matters.

Emma knows that she should probably correct Henry, but she can't find the words to do so because he's hugging her and he's so proud of her and so proud of Regina and all of their progress apart and together and really, this kind of connection – this kind of love – is all that Emma has ever wanted.

It's the kind of emotion she'd do just about anything for.

Will do anything for.

* * *

She calls Neal back after they've put Henry to bed together. If Henry notices how oddly emotional both of his mothers appear to be, he says nothing of it; he simply tells them both that he loves them and rolls over in his sheets.

And now, here she is in the kitchen, her green eyes locked on Regina's form as she stands out on the deck, staring out at the ocean, her dark hair pressed back against her forehead by the crisp night breeze.

"Hey," Emma says once Neal's picked up on his side.

"I didn't actually expect to hear from you," he answers in that tone of his that could be saying that he'd just eaten a chilidog and it was just all right.

"She told you I'd call," Emma reminds him.

"Yeah, but…she's the Evil Queen." He adds a quiet chuckle at the end.

"Was, Neal. She was. She's Henry's mother now."

There's a pause and she can almost see his frown. "So, what's the verdict?"

"So, she…we agreed to let you take him for a weekend. Next weekend if you're up for it, but –"

"Really? Em, that's –"

"But that are conditions."

The excitement in his voice is decidedly lower when he mumbles out a petulant, "Yeah, of course there are."

"Neal."

"No, I get it. I screwed you over and…I get it. Let's have 'em."

"You have to do the weekend in Storybrooke and not New York."

"Why? Do you really think that I'd run off with him?"

"You ran off on me."

"And I told you I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say to –"

"You don't have to say anything else, Neal; you just have to prove to me that you'll stay around and not just take care of yourself for once. And that means agreeing to the conditions that Regina and I have."

There's a pause and then, "All right. So Storybrooke, fine. What else?"

"This one is for me. Check in on my mother. My father means well, but he coddles her. He told me he'd try to talk to her – really talk to her – but, I want to come home soon; I need to know that it's safe for everyone."

"Safe for everyone or safe for Regina?"

"Everyone includes Regina," Emma comments, her tone cool.

"Okay, but I don't know these people well, Em. Or at all, really."

"You don't have to. They'll want to be around Henry as much as possible, and you'll be around them. Use the skills you taught me and just listen."

"I can do that. That all?"

"That and just make sure Henry calls in every night," Emma says, smiling slightly to herself when she realizes just how much every other normal mother in the world she sounds. "She needs that and so do I."

"Not a problem. So, you said this weekend?"

"Right. You get him Friday and give him back to us Sunday night."

"We sound like divorced parents with a custody arrangement."

"We kind of are that, Neal," she reminds him dryly.

"Kind of," he muses, but is smart enough not to call out the difference between their arrangement and normal ones – namely the fact that Regina is actually the alpha parent in this whole weird situation. "Thank you," he adds on after a moment. "This really means…it means a lot to me, you know?"

"I do, but don't thank just me, okay? This doesn't happen if Regina doesn't want it to. She's his mother, too, Neal, and there's nothing that happens in his life without her being part of it. You understand what I'm saying?"

"I think so. This is weird."

"I know, but maybe it'll get easier for all of us eventually."

There's another long pause, and then, in the kind of tone that makes her visual him scuffing his feet. "Em, is there something going on between –"

"That's none of your business." She says this as gently as she can because she's not trying to hurt him, but her tone is firm as well; she won't speak of whatever might or might not be going on between she and Regina.

Not until at least they know exactly what it is.

"Copy that," he replies with what sounds like a grunt. "So Friday noon?"

"That's fine."

"Thanks again."

"Yeah, I'll see you then."

She hangs up the cell and places it down on the counter. She looks out the window, sees Regina still standing at the rail and sighs.

It's time to get this show on the road.

Maybe it won't be so bad.

Maybe they've both been just building this up in their head to be something awful and painful, and maybe it'll just be easy and cathartic and calm.

She knows better, of course.

Their lives can never be so easy.

* * *

"Hey," Emma greets as she steps out onto the deck with two glass tumblers and a bottle of alcohol.

"Is this another whiskey kind of conversation, dear?" Regina asks as she turns her head to acknowledge the sheriff's arrival. Her eyebrow lifts up in bemusement as Emma drops down into one of the chairs with her typical brand of graceless style. That she's coming to almost find Emma's unrefined rough edges more and more endearing by the day is something of a surprise to her, but she supposes that almost everything is lately.

Everything is changing so fast, and some days she's not even sure who she is anymore or what she wants. Some days, she has no idea who she's become and where she's supposed to go with this new raw uncertain person.

"I'm pretty sure this is very epitome of that kind of conversation," Emma chuckles as she places the bottle down on the deck and then with her other hand extends a glass full of whiskey towards Regina.

Regina takes it from her, swirls the amber liquid around for a moment and then takes a swig of it. Then, "I know this is supposed to be all about…my issues with my mother, but…but I need a favor first."

Emma almost replies with "anything" but the cautious and wary part of her that is far older and more ingrained with her body and soul than the part of her that wants to trust without hesitation pulls her back and stops her from being able to say the words. "What kind of favor?" she asks instead.

"I need you to start."

"What?"

Regina swallows, the motion oddly rough for her. "Tell me about…tell me about your childhood." She reaches her not in use hand forward and takes one of Emma's. She runs her fingers over the knuckles there, rubbing at a light scar that she'd noticed earlier that afternoon. It's faint now, but the jagged line that Regina sees there reminds her of wounds that she'd suffered – ones which had been magically healed. "How did you get that?"

"Oh," Emma says as she pulls her hand away and stares at the lines on it.

And just keeps staring.

She doesn't speak for almost two minutes after that; long enough that Regina is actually beginning to fidget in a way that makes her more than a little bit uncomfortable. Not because it physically hurts to move around in the wood chair (though it's not exactly a pleasant experience, either), but because the very motion of shifting about anxiously makes her think of the severe reprimands that she'd once received from her mother.

_Ladies are able to stay still, Regina. Ladies are always composed. Children act like they are unable to control their bodies. Is that what you are, my dear girl? Is my beautiful daughter little more than an unrefined child?_

She forces the thoughts away; they'll be with her before this night is over, anyway. She'd asked Emma to make her be brave and that's what this is all about right here and now. It's about the truth and the past and the terrible thing that goes bump in the night while wearing the face of someone who should have loved her more than anything or anyone else in the world.

It's about her mother and her father and eighteen years of damaged love.

But that will come soon enough. For now, she waits on Emma. She's not yet ready to be strong and brave; not enough to speak of these things first, and so she hopes that the sheriff will be the one to get this ball rolling.

It's unfair and it's awful and the grinding in her ribs is for more than just herself because the haunted and horrible look in Emma's eyes tells her enough to know that they share pain that no child should ever have.

They share a dark and horrible past even across two worlds.

"You don't have to," Regina says finally because her heart is pounding and Emma's jaw is still working to try to form the words that she needs to say in order to answer the question asked of her. She's looking out at the water now, her glass tumbler trembling in her too tightly clenched hand.

Emma Swan looks absolutely terrified.

"Emma," she tries again. "You don't have to do this…you don't have to say anything. I'm sorry I even asked. This isn't…this isn't your…"

"It is," the sheriff cuts in, sounding so very young and hurt. There's an odd hoarseness, a terrible break to her voice when she speaks "You want me to make you be brave; well maybe I need you to make me be it, too."

Regina laughs at this, and it's not to be cruel, but rather because the very idea of Emma not being brave is utterly preposterous to her; this woman is quite simply the most courageous person that she has ever met. Sometimes, Emma's courage is foolhardy and stupid (like trying to save the soul of an Evil Queen), but it's always powered by the desire to do the right thing.

To help and not hurt.

Surprised by the burst of laughter, Emma turns her head to look at her, seeming for a moment insulted, but before she can even open her mouth to voice such a sentiment, Regina surprises her by leaning towards her and for the second time in this day, lifting a hand up to her face and settling it there, the warmth of her palm gently caressing the slope of Emma's cheek. She lightly grazes her fingers across the soft smooth skin she finds there and says, "Just be you, my dear, and that will be brave enough for both of us."

Emma exhales, an embarrassed smile lighting on her lips. "Okay. Okay."

Regina smiles at her and then pulls her hand away and brings it back to her lap. She says nothing as Emma takes another large sip from the glass.

She simply waits and tries to ignore the horrible knot of guilt in her gut.

Finally, Emma says, "I think I was eight, maybe nine. The ages all eventually run together. They seemed like a good family; they'd already permanently adopted three of the kids that they'd taken in so they were kind of the ones constant throwbacks like me jumped to be a part of because the chance of a forever family was there and really, that was all any of us ever wanted."

She glances down at the lines at her knuckles again.

"They weren't the worst foster family I'd ever had or ever would have, but I realized something real fast with them; they weren't interested in helping me through all of my abandonment issues. They didn't want them to even exist at all. I was supposed to be the perfect little blonde girl with a big smile, but even at eight or nine, I was angry and I wanted someone to help."

"What did they do to you?" Regina asks softly because she's starting to get the uncomfortable feeling that Emma is trying to justify why these people would have hurt her. It's bizarre and completely un-Emma like to let someone who had injured an innocent child off the hook, but then Regina suspects that Emma has very rarely seen herself as a child.

Certainly never an innocent one.

"They corrected me," Emma states. "When I acted out, I was put in the closet and told to stay there quietly until I'd learned my lesson. Let me tell you, when you're in that dark little room, you don't actually believe that someone is going to come and tell you that you're a wizard." She laughs bitterly when she says this. "You believe other things like maybe that you're going to die in there and you wonder what you did and how bad you are."

"Emma…"

"Brave," Emma reminds her. "Let me get this out."

Regina nods her head. It's strange the things she's feeling right now; as a child she'd seldom come across others that had been hurt and she certainly hadn't recognized herself as being abused. As the Queen, she'd rarely be exposed to every day of life in the peasantry and so she hadn't seen what terrible things could be done to children who…

She stops, her eyes closing.

And she listens.

"The scars, these scars, anyway, they came from me ruining a dinner party. There was a cake out and I was hungry, but you know, that's the worst part; I wasn't really hungry. They weren't starving me. I just saw the cake and I wanted it because it was chocolate and it looked good and I was a kid." She shakes her head, her lips pursing. "My foster mother was the one who did this. They're from a ruler. It was the side of it that broke the skin. She probably should have stopped when I started bleeding, but…I kept crying."

"I take it that wasn't allowed."

"No. We were supposed to accept our punishments silently. That was the very first rule I was informed of by my foster siblings when I got to the house. Punishments were done for my own good and so that I could learn to be a valuable part of the family. Crying and screaming were considered to be an insult to my trying-so-hard parents and were never ever permitted."

"That's barbaric."

"Your mother never had anything like that?" Emma asks, tilting her head in a way that suggests that she already knows the answer to her question.

_Shush, my dear. I only hurt you because I want you to be strong. Because I love you so much and I want you to be the best that you can be. Shush._

"She did," Regina replies stiffly. "It's still barbaric."

"Yeah. I suppose the one good thing that came out of the whole mess with the ruler was that once I'd healed up enough to not alarm the social workers, they returned me. I was told that I was just not a fit for the family."

"You didn't say anything?"

"No way. Kids who talk get a reputation, and besides, the only ones who could have backed me up about what was going in that house were the ones who'd been adopted permanently. They sure as hell weren't going to risk being taken away from their new parents."

"Could they have been? Taken away, I mean?"

"Yeah. If the cops had arrested my foster parents for abuse, and they'd been actually convicted, all of those kids would have ended up sharing beds next to me. I was angry and hurt, but I knew I couldn't do that to them."

"You would have been saving them from something worse than that."

"Would I have been? For them, a little punishment every now and again was worth it for the soft bed, the warm meals and the idea of family that they'd won. They figured it was a good trade-off, and kids like me knew better than to try to take that away from them." She thinks for a moment, and then adds, "I think my problem was that I never did learn the lesson about just shut up and accept whatever you need to in order to get what you want. I always fought back. Nobody wants a fighter. Not for a kid, anyway."

"I would imagine that your mother would disagree with you there."

"But I might not have ended up a fighter if I'd grown up with her."

"True," Regina agrees with a small wry smile. "You probably would have become a pampered princess with a nauseating predilection for the color pink and the bizarre ability to talk to every furry animal in the forest."

"That's really disturbing."

"Indeed." She takes another sip of her whiskey and then grows serious again. "Was there anything good…was your childhood all bad?"

"No, it wasn't all bad. I told you about the friends I'd had, the screw-ups and the hard-asses. There were others along the way, too. Some good and some bad, but they were friends all the same. The problem was, they moved in and out of my life and after awhile, I stopped believing that someone would be there tomorrow. The other side of that, though, is that I also learned how to make things matter more. If I met someone, I didn't waste a lot of time with pleasantries and bullshit. That's kind of how I fell into Neal."

Though the words of how that'd worked out – or not worked out – for Emma certainly go through Regina's mind, she manages to push them down.

Because right now, they'd do little else besides hurt Emma.

"I'm sorry," Regina says after a moment. "I can't say that if I had known what you would go through that I would have done things differently; I was in a place where I simply didn't care who got hurt. But now…I'm sorry."

"I know and like I said before, I forgive you."

"Because you choose to?" Regina presses, as though she can't believe it.

"Yeah, exactly. And because I'm okay now. All those things, the wounds, the scars and even the nightmares, they're my past," Emma assures her. "They're still with me. They will always be with me, but I am okay."

"Tell me how you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Not let your anger consume you. How do you keep yourself from wanting to hurt everyone for letting you down? For not protecting you?"

Emma shrugs. "I learned to protect myself. It just seemed…better. I think when I got to a place where I just assumed people would let me down; I stopped being angry about it. I already told you what I did after Neal fucked me over so you know I wasn't always successful, but I tried to be. I tried to be…empty. I tried not to feel anything. And for awhile, it worked."

"Until Henry."

"And my mother. And you. Both of you made me feel things again. Now, granted, totally different things that I feel now, but still."

"You wanted to kill me," Regina surmises.

"Not kill, but I certainly had it in my head to try to run you over."

"Your car probably would have stalled out first."

Emma laughs. "Probably." She refills her glass and then Regina's, noting that both were emptied during their conversation. "Okay, your turn."

"My turn," Regina repeats. "Right." She thinks for a moment and then starts where she thinks it matters most. "My mother was heartless. Literally."

"She took it out herself, right?"

"I don't know the complete story there, but yes. I think it has something to do with Rumplestiltskin, but I never did exactly find out how they were connected to each other. Besides the obvious, I mean."

"The obvious?"

"My mother was the Miller's Daughter; I'm sure you know the tale."

"Are you serious?"

"Unfortunately. It was something she told me about just a few days before…before what happened. Though I suspect her version was severely abridged considering she made him sound almost exactly like the stories from this world portray Rumple to be and well, he's a son of a bitch but he's certainly more than just a little imp with moniker issues."

"Right. Son of a bitch works pretty well for me."

"For me, too, dear," Regina chuckles. She knocks back the rest of her glass and then extends it to Emma for another refill. "My mother removed her heart to protect herself from feeling anything that could slow her down."

"Such as love?" Emma queries as she re-pours for both of them.

"Indeed. It made her cold and brutal and obsessed."

"Who was she before that?"

"Someone who was willing to take out her heart," Regina answers, suddenly blinking rapidly. "Someone who actively chose power over love."

"But you didn't know that when you were a kid, did you?"

"That she had no heart? No, and I'm not sure I would have understood even if I had known. I didn't really understood what a heart meant until I started training with Rumple. I knew my mother collected them, but I had no idea what that really meant. I had no idea how many lives she'd destroyed."

"Tell me about the nightmare you had last night."

Regina takes another sip, feeling the burn down her throat. It's less than it'd been after the first drink, but it's still there. That she's probably a little bit inebriated right now hardly matters; she's never felt more clear-minded.

"My mother almost killed me when I was fourteen years old," Regina answers, her voice dull. "For sneaking out of a party with a boy who'd had no interest in me beyond being someone he could speak to. When she found us together, she used magic on me and she crushed my…"

It's funny just how hard it is to actually say the words. The images are so very clear in Regina's mind now. She can see herself up the air and she can feel the intense pain of her ribs cracking inwards. She can taste the metallic of blood in her mouth and the rancid of desperate air through her lungs.

She can almost smell how close to death she'd been.

And yet the words are catching hard in her throat. She tries desperately to blink back the hot tears, but her body is betraying her now, and all she manages to do is contort her face into an expression of pure misery.

She feels Emma's hand slide into hers. "I'm here," she says. "She's not."

Regina exhales and suddenly it's like she _can_ breathe again. "She crushed my ribs. I probably would have died that night if not for…I believe it was Rumple that she brought to my bed to save me. I didn't know it then, of course, but…well the dreams."

"Is that where the song is from?"

"Yes. I can't believe I sang…hummed that to him." Disgust colors her face darkly.

"It's just a song."

"It was how she apologized for hurting me."

"It's what helped Henry sleep as a child, right?"

Regina nods her head.

"Then it's his and it's yours now."

Another gulp and then softly, "She killed Daniel. She tore out his heart and crushed it in front of me."

"Yeah."

"She manipulated my entire life from begging to end to get me to Snow's father. She forced me to marry him."

"Yeah."

"She took away everything so that I had nothing but her."

"Yeah."

"But I let myself fall."

"Yeah," Emma agrees once more. Then, frowning slightly, "Okay, what l don't get is this: my mother told me yours disappeared before the wedding. Why didn't you just…not marry the King?"

"I actually did try to get away at first, but Rumple brought me back. He convinced me that he could teach me magic, and I thought I could use it to bring Daniel back to life. I actually convinced myself that I just needed to buy a little time to get strong enough to do it and then Daniel and I could run away and be happy. It was…well, you don't run away from a King."

"And if you had tried? If you'd left before the wedding?"

"He would have hunted me down and likely had me executed."

"Jesus."

"Our land was not exactly one of kindness and fairness. Your mother has been ridiculously fortunate in many ways, but even she would have eventually been forced to step aside for your father. That's part of the reason I never married again, and with my magic, no one could make me."

"And I think that's another mark in the con category for ever going back there," Emma drawls. "I mean aside from the ogres and zombies."

"My mother did have a thing for zombies," Regina states. "Creatures that she could control with ease; ones who would never fight back."

"But you did fight back at times?"

"At times, and like you, I was punished for it. My mother was especially fond of restraining me with magic. She would hold me up in the air for hours, until I was begging her for forgiveness and promising I'd never disappoint her again. She knew how much I hated the loss of control; it was her way of reminding me that I had never had control to begin with."

"Is that where your restraint issues come from?"

Regina's eyes flash darkly for a moment before she says, "Partially."

"And the other part?"

"Not germane to this particular conversation."

"Okay," Emma agrees, but they both know that she's simply filing this away for later; the sheriff never lets anything go. Dog with a bone and all that.

Not that's particularly fond of the comparison.

"Tell me about Storybrooke. Why did you go back to her?"

"Because she came for me. Because even obsession seems like love when you're alone and when all you want is for someone to give a damn."

"You know she was –"

"Using me. Yes. I knew then, but I didn't care. She wanted me at her side, and after forty years of being everyone's second choice…" she shrugs her shoulders. "My mother wanted to kill Rumplestiltskin and become the Dark One. I knew that if she did, I would lose what little I had left of her."

"Enter _my_ mother."

"Yes. She played me perfectly. She knew what I wanted and what I needed. And she knew exactly what I would do with that heart. And what I did do. I killed my mother. She was terrible to me, and maybe she never really loved me as she should have, but I did love her, and her blood is on my hands."

"I'm sorry," Emma says, and it's not lost on Regina that she'd been the one saying that just a few minutes ago.

"Why? You didn't do this to me. And it's not your job to apologize for her."

"I'm not. I can't. But I can apologize – over and over if I have to - for not believing in you when it did matter. That won't happen again."

"Don't make promises that you can't keep; I may be changing into someone…different, maybe even better than I was before, but, Emma, you shouldn't trust me when I can't trust myself." There are brightly shining tears in her eyes again, the ghosts of the self-loathing that never seems to completely surrender it's hold on her.

"Then I guess we'll have to work on that, won't we?" Emma replies, reaching up with her hand to lightly brush the tears away. The gesture is so gentle and so sincere, provided completely for the sake of offering comfort that it's enough to make Regina's heart pound like a young girl's.

Like the young girl that she'd once been.

Hopeful and young and so very stupidly innocent.

"You are an idiot, my dear."

"And you are a sweet talking charmer."

"Not exactly a skillset that was ever important."

"Really? Because I have strong memories of a silver-tongued Mayor who could charm the pants…proverbial pants, I mean…off just about anyone."

"Politics and love are not at all the same thing."

"You telling me that as a Queen you never had to play politics?"

"Oh I did, but in the end, if something didn't go by way, I always knew I could just force the situation. Politics are different when you're assured an outcome."

"If you say so. Want another refill?"

"At this point I think we might as well finish the bottle."

"Yeah." Emma pulls her hand away, reminding Regina that they'd been joined at all; it's a bit of surprise to her just how used to the sheriff's touch she's become. Just how much she might even crave and desire it.

Once the glasses are refilled once more, Regina gazes down at hers, her expression clouded over and clearly bothered.

"What are you thinking about?" Emma prompts.

"My whole life has been…it's been a perversion. A perversion of purpose, of love, of destiny, of everything. And the absolute worst part is that I'm to blame for almost all of it. I let this happen. I let myself become who I am."

"Okay," Emma says with a nod. "Then the question is, now what?"

"I don't know. I've spent so much time wanting…hating everyone."

"And now?"

"I still hate everyone. Just less, I suppose."

"Well that's a start," Emma laughs, unable to hide her amusement.

"Yes. And what of your mother?"

"What of her?" Emma asks.

"What do you expect to occur between she and I now? Do you expect for all to be forgiven? Do you think our sins equal out?"

"No," Emma says. "That's not how life works. And it's between the two of you. As long as you're not trying to kill each other or hurt each other, it's not my business if you don't want anything to do with each other."

"What do you want?"

"It doesn't matter."

"It does to me."

"It shouldn't," Emma insists. "You can't live your life for others. Not for me and not for Henry. You can try to be better for him, but you have a right to what you feel and if you can't ever forgive my mother, that's okay."

"And what if she can't ever forgive me?"

"Do you care?"

Regina smiles thinly.

"You do," Emma says, surprise lifting her eyebrows.

"The bottle is empty," Regina says, then, making it clear that she doesn't wish to speak of this any further. She's spoken of Cora and those emotions and feelings are raw and painful within her; she doesn't have the energy for anything else tonight. Certainly not anything more about Snow White.

Emma swirls around the last bit of whiskey at the bottom of the bottle and says, "Almost." She splits it between their two glasses and then brings the liquid to her lips and downs it. Once she's done, she places the glass on the rail and turns to look at Regina. "You think you'll dream tonight?"

"I'm certain I will."

"There's another Lucy and Desi marathon on. There's actually one on almost every night, but, well you're more than welcome to join me."

"You sure your neck can handle it?" Her hand slides up to gently touch at Emma's neck before retreating back again.

It's interesting, Emma thinks, just how comfortable they've suddenly become with touching each other.

"I was hoping you'd be willing to share the couch," Emma counters, punctuating her words with an almost goofy grin.

Regina's mouth opens and it's embarrassing because once upon a time she never would have shown her cards so easily, but there's something about the way Emma feels; the way the sheriff exposes her in the strangest ways.

Emma makes her think about new beginnings and _love again._

Madness. Utter madness.

Or perhaps just alcohol.

And it's just a couch and those were just simple kisses.

But nothing is ever simple.

Maybe it shouldn't be.

Unfortunately, while Regina's busy turning everything over in her head, Emma's busy misreading the look on the former queen's face as rejection and she starts to backpedal furiously, her face red. "I mean, I didn't –"

Regina reaches for her, her hand circling Emma's wrist gently, her thumb lightly rubbing at the skin there in a way that is far from platonic. "I am willing to share the couch, but the blanket is mine."

"It's scratchy anyway," Emma grouses, her eyes lowering down to watch the way Regina's thumb is moving. It's remarkable, she thinks, just how nice it is sometimes simply to be touched. And this feels like more than that.

This feels like an offer of intimacy, a promise of a connection.

This feels like assurances that a night of whiskey and pain have amounted to something that could save them – and perhaps heal them – all.

"Then I guess it's a good thing you won't have to worry about it," Regina lobs back, her thumb swiping once more before she removes her hand.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm going to go brush my teeth. And find a blanket."

"You do that. I'll be on the couch."

Emma shakes her head, but she's smiling and Regina's smiling, too.

And for a night that's hurt so much, it feels like it's ending right.

**TBC...**

* * *

**Next up: A weekend without Henry, conversation about Leopold and a possible date night. Maybe. :D  
**

**If you're so inclined, I can be found on Tumblr at sgtmac7**


	19. 15

**A/N:** First, sincere apologies for the long delays. The next chapter should be up much quicker. My goal is to complete this story before the season premiere.

Second, I know this chapter was supposed to have the date-day/night in it, but there were a few things to set up before then. That's up next.

Finally, warnings: A non-graphic scene of Regina and Leopold that involves marital rape, some salty language, and Regina playing with Neal like a cat might a mouse.

Enjoy, and thanks as always for the very kind words.

* * *

It's pouring when Regina opens her eyes several hours later. And while the tip-tap-tip-tap of rain pelting melodically against the roof and windows of the house is what she hears first – a curiously soothing sound that over the last twenty-nine years she's come to appreciate - what the former queen feels almost immediately – what freezes her in place - is the soft puffs of air blowing gently against her shoulder. Warm and steady, like the in and out motion of breathing.

Like someone is breathing against her back.

The next thing her mind recognizes – the feel of wonderfully toned arms wrapped loosely around her torso – confirms this thought for her.

Inhaling sharply – almost without even realizing that she's doing it - Regina can smell the slightly earthy scent of the sheriff, and with each blast of warm air against Regina's suddenly hyper sensitive skin; she can almost taste the light hint of whiskey that continues to linger on the sheriff's breath.

"Emma," she whispers, her voice trembling more than she might care to admit as she desperately fights against warring instincts.

Her first instinct is, of course, to do whatever she has to do in order to escape the hold that she's in; unless severely inebriated, she'd never permitted Graham or any of the other souls that she'd brought to her bed over the years to wrap themselves around her through the night; she had always considered that to simply be an intimacy too far (Leopold had sometimes - when he'd been somewhat sober - insisted upon keeping his arms around her after he'd finished with her – the very least she could do as his wife, he'd told her even after he'd watched her close her eyes against his invasive touch) and Emma isn't even her lover.

There's a curious other urge, though, and that is to just stay still and enjoy the wonderfully warm safety and security that the sheriff's arms offer her.

It's terrifying desire and one that she's never allowed herself to indulge in because she's always feared relying on anyone else for well, anything.

Especially something as important _as_ her safety and security.

She's always had to protect and take care of herself.

Only, that's not exactly true because her rather wild history with the Savior is absolutely littered with examples of Emma saving her life.

And her sanity.

She hears a soft moan from behind her, just barely audible, but it's right next to her ear, and it sends an almost violent shiver down Regina's spine.

Because Emma is too damned close to her.

And just like that, Regina feels a surge of white-hot panic suddenly whip its way through her body like a poisonous snake. It's confusing even to her because she can't for the life of her understand why _this_ is frightening but what they'd done previously in the garage and on the beach is less so?

How is being held more terrifying than being kissed?

It just _is_.

"Emma," she says again, and now she's starting to struggle against Emma's arms even though the blonde's hold on her is hardly physically tight or restrictive. They'd fallen asleep together on the couch sometime after the conversation on the porch – and after snarking through about two episodes of _I Love Lucy _- and while she's quite certain that they'd done so simply positioned parallel to each other on the safe, it seems clear enough that sometime during the night, Emma's natural instincts had taken over.

Apparently the Savior is a protector even in her sleep.

No, that's absurd and Regina is certain that she's just overthinking things.

The couch – though just wide enough for two people – is narrow enough that Emma leaning into her had likely just been a normal rolling reaction.

It means nothing more than that.

Nothing.

Only now Emma is nuzzling into her neck, her messy blonde hair tickling lightly against Regina's cheek. And oh, hey there's a gentle just-barely-there kiss right on top of the exposed skin of her left shoulder.

Regina takes a deep breath and prays for calm. In. Out. Calm.

All of that goes out the window, though, when she feels Emma's arms tighten around torso. Her body tenses and grows almost completely rigid in reaction as Emma bonelessly presses herself against Regina's back, her arms tightening forcefully around the brunette's mid-section.

She tries to remind herself that if Emma's still sleeping – and Regina thinks she is – well then she has no real idea what she's doing right now.

Or how goddamned _good_ it feels.

Even the arms around her, which is somewhat surprising considering what she's always associated being held with.

Not that how good any of this feels is at all the relevant point here.

No, the relevant point is that this probably shouldn't be happening _even if_ they were awake but certainly not while one of them is asleep and –

But now Emma has moved her mouth up and is now kissing the exposed underside of her jaw. The kisses are light and gentle, almost non-existent, really, but Regina feels each as if it'd been a sharp punch to the face.

She closes her eyes and inhales sharply. "Emma," she finally stammers out, sounding not at all like herself. "Emma, you need to…you need to stop."

If Emma hears her – and Regina's pretty damned sure now that she doesn't – she shows no sign of it; instead, the sheriff rather fluidly (especially considering that this is some kind of bizarre sexual sleepwalking) flips her body around so that she's on the outside edge of the couch facing Regina and then she's gliding forward and her lips are pressing up against Regina's and she's –

"Emma! Stop!"

It's the loudness and the urgency that does it; the blonde comes awake with a violently blinking start and falls back in one awkward uncontrolled motion.

Off the couch and onto her flannel-clad ass. Her limbs splay outwards in an almost comical motion, her legs just about ending up over her head before she manages to regain control of her body and pull herself back together.

"Were you dreaming?" the former queen asks, wide-eyed and alarmed.

"Dreaming? What?" Emma asks, her voice sleep-husked. She looks from side to side, like she's trying to figure out why she is where she is and how she'd gotten there. Unfortunately, considering her just awakened state, the answers are dripping in slowly. Her green eyes blink slowly, sleepily.

"Were you dreaming, Emma?" Regina demands once more, an unsettling kind of desperation noticeably present in her oddly trembling voice.

"I…don't know? Why am I on the ground and…is it raining?" Then, finally looking right at Regina and really noticing the panic painted in broad colorful strokes across her face.

"Are you okay? Did something happen?"

"Yes! You kissed me."

"I did? When?" She blinks again because she can't quite figure out why this is a panic situation. Yes, their relationship is ever changing and up in the air and this romantic element is still somewhat new to both of them, but it's not like this had been their first kiss and…well, frankly, Emma just doesn't get it.

"In your sleep. You kissed me in your sleep. And…" She trails off, and then shakes her head in frustration because damned if she doesn't feel like a completely childish idiot right now. Here she is, a woman who'd brought many a powerful man to his knees with her unique brand of unapologetically brazen sexuality and yet right now she's flustered by one uncouth blonde.

Right now, Emma Swan is making her feel like a teenager again.

Suffice it to say, she doesn't much care for the uncertainty of it all.

"I…I'm sorry?" Emma offers, her brow crinkling in confusion.

"You should be…you had…you had your arms around me like...you were holding me," Regina practically has to force the words out, like they're being spoken in a different language. It's clear that her panic is growing.

"Is that a bad thing?" Emma asks, pushing herself up to her elbows. She's staring back at the dark confusion that she sees on Regina's face and she's trying to understand what emotions are driving the former queen right now.

What she sees doesn't look like anger or outrage or even disgust.

Fear is what it looks like to Emma.

Fear of _her_.

"No," Regina says, then shakes her head. "Yes. You were…"

"Restraining you? I was…restraining you?" Emma presses. "Is that…is that what this is about? Because if so, I'm sorry. I never meant to –"

"No! That's not…that's not it." She's not quite lying, but she's not quite telling the truth, either, because yes, Leopold had suddenly entered her mind. Regina stands up, then, and starts to pace, looking more anxious and agitated than Emma has seen her in awhile. This whole thing feels off to the sheriff, and she can't quite figure just why yet.

"Okay, look, I don't understand. We fell asleep on the couch, right?"

"Yes. And then you…" she swallows the rest of the sentence because it's absurd even in her own mind. She takes a breath in and then blows it out, like she's trying to get control of herself. Like she's trying to find balance.

"I held you," Emma finishes for her, head cocked to the side. "Right?"

"Yes," Regina stammers out as she clutches the scratchy brown blanket around her in a way that seems frankly just wrong to Emma. This degree of insecurity is unsettling and concerning. And then just like that, she flips a switch somewhere inside of herself and the anxiety melts back, replaced by an oversized completely false smile. "You know what? I…I think it's clear I just startled myself so before I make a bigger fool of myself, I'm going to return to my room," Regina says, the words as much of a lie as her smile.

Emma considers directly contesting her, but opts to go for a softer play instead. "Yeah, okay. Sure. But...did I do something wrong here?"

And that works because almost immediately, the fake smile falls away and the truth of Regina's emotions – whether Emma particularly wants to see them or not (and she does and doesn't) – returns in the anxiety of her stance.

"No. I…" Regina shakes her head desperately, trying to clear the cascading images and thoughts away. She can still feel Emma's touch and it's terrifying because suddenly she's seeing other people in her mind as well.

People she doesn't want to see.

An unwanted husband that she never wants to think of ever again.

"I kissed you?" Emma prompts, drawing her back to the here and now.

"Several times, actually," Regina chuckles, though the tense way that she's holding herself offsets the humor of her words. "You seem to be…"

"Very affectionate in my sleep. Yeah, so I've heard," Emma says with what looks like a sheepish expression and a shrug of her shoulders.

"Oh. I see," Regina notes, glancing away for a moment, an odd expression – something that almost looks like disappointment – crossing her sleep creased features for a moment before giving way to blankness once more.

The sheriff shrugs her shoulders once again. "I doubt it, but for what it's worth, Regina, I am sorry. I didn't mean to –"

"You didn't," Regina says quickly, her hand flashing up to wave through the air in what's meant to look like a dismissive motion. "But I should –"

"Go back to your own room. Right. Hey, are…are we okay?" Emma asks, suddenly seeming almost frightened, and perhaps she actually is; she's been working so very hard to give the former queen a place where she can feel safe and secure and she's been going out of her way to be a friend and a reliable support system for Regina, and the idea that carelessness while sleeping could cost them that is enough to make her stomach clench and roll.

"We're fine," Regina assures her, her voice thick and deep. She clears her throat as if she's trying to push back emotion and adds, "I just…we probably should be careful about giving Henry the wrong idea about us."

"And what _is_ the wrong idea? What are we?"

"I think you're my friend. My only friend," Regina says softly, smiling almost sadly, the expression painfully genuine and completely heartbreaking. "And I don't want to lose that when you realize that whatever is happening between us right now is…wrong. And, Emma, whatever you believe right now, you will eventually realize that."

She reaches out and touches Emma's face, her trembling fingers sliding gently against the softness of Emma's lips. That they both want her to keep her hand there is something that neither woman dares to say aloud.

Instead, they simply stare at each other, green eyes locked on brown ones.

"Regina," Emma starts, because she has to say something here, something – anything – to make this moment hurt less for both of them.

"You will," Regina reiterates. "And that's okay as long as…" she trails off with one last terribly sad smile, then pulls her hand away and turns and leaves the room, her footsteps almost inaudible against the hard tiled floor.

"Well, shit," Emma sighs, her head dropping back to hit the lip of the couch with a soft thud. "You really handled that one well, Swan."

And oh, had she ever.

To be fair, however, the sudden and somewhat unexpected upside down spin of the night hadn't been completely her fault.

Perhaps, though, she should have seen it coming – should have seen how a night that had started with whiskey and horrible tales of their damaged youth had turned into an evening of cuddling (her mind chuckles at the absurdity of the word) and intimacy – but, well, she hadn't.

And now all she can see is a brightly flashing neon sign warning her about the twist that her relationship with Regina has suddenly taken.

Warning her that it has turned into something dangerous and frightening.

Something that both of them, in spite of their better judgment (though she supposes that it can be argued that neither one of them has ever been a pro when it comes to judgment) find themselves moving towards.

In a million billion years, Emma thinks, she could have never imagined this happening when she'd agreed to help Henry with his plan to kidnap Regina.

But then again, she's learned a time or two over the years that the things that are worth a damn in life are never the ones you plan for or expect.

They're the ones that just happen.

Not because they're meant to be or because of fate (she rejects the absence of free will in both of those concepts) but because sometimes people just connect in ways that no one could have ever imagined. Sometimes, people just gravitate towards each other because they understand each other.

People like she and Neal Cassidy.

A part of her wishes – will probably always wish - that she'd never stolen that damned car of his. If she hadn't, well then everything would have turned out so very different, she thinks (then again, maybe it wouldn't have thanks to interference from August). Back then, she'd been so very young and still so remarkably hopeful after all that had life had thrown her through, and instead of protecting her, Neal had shattered her heart and darkened her soul in ways that she's never wanted to know about and still doesn't.

She doesn't want to understand pain and hurt and loss and abandonment as well as she does.

She doesn't want to have the memory of his betrayal.

But she does.

She always will.

But she thinks that maybe it's time for the past to be the past because thanks to a curse, a tree, and a car, she has Henry.

Because thanks to Regina and Neal and August, she is who she is today.

Maybe, she's just about done regretting being that person.

Maybe, she's done being sorry for who she turned out to be.

Yes, as far as Emma's concerned, she's a fuck up and not half as good a person as everyone believes her to be, but she likes to think that one day she could be. She likes to think that one day she might be worthy of the faith and trust that so very many people have shown in her.

People like Regina Mills.

It's almost funny to Emma how this whole thing has worked out. They'd come to this beach house to help Regina figure things out, but with each day that passes, Emma is beginning to understand that truly, she'd needed this escape to somewhere safe and quiet just as much as Regina had.

She, too, had needed a place where she could just stop and take a breath.

And that's what this. Ground Zero for both of them.

A new beginning and that means that it's time to stop letting the past derail every positive movement towards the future; it's time to step forward.

She stands up then and after an uncomfortable stretch of her tired muscles, she makes her way down the hallway towards the bedrooms. She stands outside of Regina's for a moment, takes a breath and then knocks sharply.

"Hey," she call out, and then shifts anxiously from side to side as she waits – and hopes – for Regina to open the door and face her.

The door opens a moment later and Regina – her face looking freshly scrubbed (of tears, Emma thinks with more than a hint of sadness deep in her chest) – stands there, surprise showing in her dark eyes. "Emma?"

"We _are_ friends," the sheriff tells her. And then without further warning, Emma leans in and presses her lips hard against Regina's, the kiss bold and passionate but not at all sexual. For the moment – this moment, at least – it's meant to relay an emotion and not an attraction. When Emma finally breaks away after a moment, she continues with, "And no matter _what_ happens between us, no matter what _this_ is, that's what we're going to be."

And with that said and done, Emma nods her head like her statement is the definitive word on all of this, and she then turns and walks down the hallway, entering her own room and shutting the door behind her.

"Well all right then," Regina whispers, her words almost breathless and strained. And then, a moment later, she laughs to herself.

Because surely, this swirling storm that represents the rapidly altering relationship between she and Emma is coming closer and closer by the day.

It's madness and well, she's never really been one to turn away from such.

Even when she damn well _knows_ that she should.

Perhaps, though, perhaps this is the one time she shouldn't.

Or perhaps this is the one time she absolutely should.

Either way, the storm is approaching and like a fool who will never learn her lessons about how love is weakness, she's still laughing.

* * *

Emma's not one bit surprised when nine in the morning arrives and Regina's already out in the kitchen making coffee. "Sheriff," the former queen drawls as she extends a cup out to the blonde, steam rising from the top of it.

"You're letting me have some of _your_ coffee?" Emma asks as she reaches for the cup and pulls it between her cool palms. She lets a soft sigh out as the warmth bleeds into her skin; she quite enjoys this house, but she'd be lying if she claimed that mornings around here weren't on the cold side. The fact that it's still pouring outside makes the coffee all the more appreciated.

"Are you complaining because if you are, I'm sure –"

"Nope, not complaining at all," Emma corrects. "I'm thankful."

"Well…good. As for why, I suppose it's the very least that I can do for you after what you did for me last night," Regina replies as she offers Emma a box of sugar cubes. While Regina tends to take her coffee black, the sheriff is well known to add ridiculous amounts of caloric additives to hers.

"What did she do for you last night?" Henry asks as she enters the kitchen and tosses himself carelessly up on the stool. He rubs at his eyes and then looks up at both of his mothers, his sleepy expression nonetheless curious.

The two women exchange a look – the kind where they're both asking each other how much they should actually share with Henry – and then Regina offers, "Emma stayed up with me so that we could talk about my mother."

"Oh," he says with an nod meant to suggest that he understands even though it's completely impossible that he could. "Was she able to help?"

"She was."

"Cool," he replies. "You know, I'm really glad you guys are friends now."

It's such a simple and innocent statement, and it catches both of them off-guard enough that for a moment, neither mother can reply to him. If he notices, however, he doesn't show it. Instead, he plows ahead with, "But can you maybe be friends more quietly. I heard the TV on all last night."

"Yeah, sorry about that," Emma chuckles. "The TV helps me sleep."

"I remember," he tells her with what sounds a whole lot like a humoring tone and an almost patronizing shake of his head. "_I Love Lucy_ again?"

"Yes," she replies dryly, once again wondering if she can get away with calling her son a "little shit". A glance towards Regina convinces her not to try because well, she's pretty damned sure that Regina would take his side.

"Just how often do you fall asleep to that show?" Regina queries as she refills her coffee mug and then pours a glass of orange juice for Henry.

"Almost every night that we shared a room," Henry notes.

"He's exaggerating. It's not every night. Just when I have a lot on my mind."

"How often since we've been here?" Regina presses.

Emma shrugs her shoulders. "I dunno, maybe a couple nights a week."

"Because you've had a lot on your mind," Regina circles back, eyebrow up.

"Yeah," the sheriff admits with a bemused chuckle. "You could say that."

She almost immediately regrets her words. Not because they throw Regina off – the former queen is well aware of just how many shadows are lurking within both of their minds these days – but because Henry's eyebrow is lifting up and he's leaning across the counter like he's about to hear a story.

"What kind of stuff was on your mind last night?" he prompts.

"Stuff about what your mom and I are going to do this weekend while you're with Neal," Emma tosses back, her tone intentionally light and airy.

Henry frowns at this, and it's clear that her attempt at levity has failed because he's actually considering the question. "What will you guys do?"

"Oh, I'm sure we'll figure something out," Regina assures him.

"But something that won't end up with you hurting Emma, right?"

"Henry," Emma cautions. She's frowning right at him now but he seems not to notice, his eyes instead locked on his adoptive mother.

"Don't worry; I think we're beyond that now," Regina reassures him. "And I promise you, dear, Emma and I are going to be just fine this weekend."

"Okay," Henry says with a long-suffering sigh. "Because I'm counting on you two to behave while I'm gone." He's smiling when he says this, and now it's his turn to try to lighten then slight tension in the room. "Which means, Mom, no throwing tantrums when Emma beats you at chess, and Emma –"

"Right. I still owe her a week of salads for losing at pool; I know."

"Oh yes, I had forgotten about that," Regina chuckles. The fact that she doesn't seem to be brooding over Henry's apparent lack of faith from just a few moments ago is once again proof to Emma's eyes and heart of just how far the former queen has truly come during the last two months. There had been a time not long ago when such ill-considered - even if unintentionally hurtful - words would have sent her into an all day funk, but right now, she seems to have moved past them as if they'd run right off her without causing any kind of damage whatsoever.

"Really? You did?" Emma drawls. "Because I was under the impression that you never forget about ways to torture me." She's grinning widely when she says this, the look somewhat challenging in the kind of way that's meant to be friendly and playful and perhaps even just a little bit suggestive.

"Well, I don't, but that one had slipped away for the moment," Regina smirks. "Thank you, Henry, for reminding me. Does a nice spinach sound good to you for lunch?" She's looking right at Emma as she asks this.

"I'm guessing this is a rhetorical question?"

"Very much so, dear."

"Well then it sounds wonderful, Your Majesty."

"Excellent. Henry, what would you like for breakfast?"

"Waffles with strawberries?"

"You think you can handle that, Sheriff? Eggs minimally needed."

"I think I can manage it. That is if you can go set the table." When Regina lifts an eyebrow at her, she tags on a quick sheepish smile and, "Please."

"Of course."

Regina turns and exits the kitchen then, leaving Henry and Emma.

"Is she actually okay?" Henry asks. He tilts his head as he watches his adoptive mother glide through the dining room with ease. "She seems like she's in a good mood for having talked about her mom. I expected –"

"A lot has changed," Emma says, cutting him off. "Your mom is changing and that means she's trying to handle the things that hurt her…better."

She almost adds on something about his earlier comment about Regina causing her harm over the upcoming weekend without him around, but chooses to let it pass for the moment. His habit of assuming the worst about Regina is certainly something to keep an eye on for sure, but she knows that the former queen wouldn't appreciate her scolding their son for something that she herself doesn't appear to actually be upset about.

"Because of you?" he presses, eyes flickering away from Regina and back to Emma. He still looks like he's deep in thought, like he's trying to understand.

Emma shrugs her shoulders. "It's complicated."

He frowns at this. "That's what adults say when they don't want to explain something that they don't think that kids like me will understand."

"Sometimes and sometimes it's what adults say when they don't understand what's happening, either. And I don't. All I know is that everything that's going on here, everything that has happened, it is good. It's all good."

He nods like he understands exactly what she's saying. Which is impossible, of course, but she's certainly not about to correct him or clarify things for him. "I _am_ glad," he says, his green eyes again drifting out towards where Regina is setting the table, each delicate plate being settled down with the utmost care. "That you and Mom are friends. She needs someone that she can trust. And you do, too, right? I mean, besides Grandma and Grandpa."

"I do," Emma answers, her tone cautious because she feels like every time she admits to even a little bit of the closeness that is growing between she and Regina, she's opening herself up to confessing more than she's ready to.

More than is safe to.

Neither she nor Regina have a clue about what is actually happening between them; they are three intense kisses into something that doesn't have a proper title or term, but they know that it's leading to something.

The question is what.

Actually, there are a lot of questions.

None of which they're ready to answer.

So she smiles and nods at Henry, and tells him to grab the waffle maker so that she can start cooking breakfast. He gives her a look, the kind that seems to suggest that he knows that she's deflecting, but then he shrugs his shoulders and appears to – for the time being, at least - let it go.

Which is a relief.

Because Regina suddenly is looking over at her from where she's standing at the table with her wonderfully dark eyes full of a thousand emotions. Fear, hope and the typical swirling darkness that always seems so very ready to grab the former queen and yank her beneath its undertow.

And Emma suddenly knows – _knows_ – that whatever happens or doesn't happen between the two of them now, it won't be without consequence.

They've come too far for that now.

They're friends, yes. Absolutely – astoundingly – wonderfully that.

She reminds herself that's what's the most important thing of all because at the end of the day, they've both been through too much pain and hurt and rejection and betrayal in their lives to give up what they actually truly need from each other for something that could be frivolous and…

But to be honest, it's already more than that, isn't it? And to call anything between them frivolous seems…well, it just seem completely wrong.

Because when Emma thinks about holding the former queen in her arms, it's a visual that she finds that she actually rather likes.

One she'd like to be awake for next time.

"You're drifting, dear," she hears, low and entirely too close to her ear.

"What?" she blinks, turning to look at Regina who is now standing right next to her, watching her with a lifted eyebrow and a curious expression.

"Your mind," Regina says with a small knowing smile. "I presume you're deep in thought…somewhere, which is really the only explanation I have for why you're pouring waffle mix onto the counter instead of the grill."

Emma groans loudly, her eyes on the mess in front of her. "Go away."

Regina laughs, then, the sound rich and wonderful. It rushes right into the middle of the sheriff's chest and digs down deep between her ribs, causing a flood of warmth up and down her body. It's delicious and exciting and…

And Emma knows that they're already beyond the point of consequences.

* * *

The rest of the week passes for the three of them in wave of easy sameness and comfortable routine that they've all come to appreciate and even enjoy.

The nightly porch conversations over red wine between the two ladies don't touch on the really frightening skeletons in the closet for either of them, but neither do they shy away from the darker corners of each of their pasts.

For her part, Regina talks about her training under Rumplestiltskin. She doesn't provide too many in-depth details, but she gives out more than enough for Emma to understand just how truly her teacher had altered her.

Just how completely she'd been molded into the perfect puppet by Rumple.

Despite this, Emma begins to notice how with each conversation, Regina begins to own more and more of her education; how she starts to refuse to allow it to be about Rumple controlling and perverting her.

This not still somewhat new need of Regina's to take full responsibility for everything is unsettling in entirely too many ways to Emma, but she feels that for Regina's self-worth and mental growth, it's also crucial.

Because after all that's happened, after she's been through and done, the one thing Regina needs is to finally be in control of herself. Even if that means taking the blame for how she'd ended up where and how she had.

When it's her turn, Emma speaks of her early days in bounty hunting and how she'd ended up in the hospital on several occasions with broken bones, but had kept at it because back then, the pain had been welcome visitor.

And when the evening is through, they each retire to their own rooms with a clumsy and slightly uncomfortable good night and a noticeable lack of contact. Like they think that this physical distance might help them deal with whatever appears to be happening between them. They both know better, of course, but in truth, neither one of them wants to deal with this while Henry is around to cast curious and entirely too thoughtful eyes on them.

The weekend is coming and they both know that it won't be an uneventful one.

* * *

She's waiting for him on the porch when he drives up. A lukewarm cup of coffee clutched tightly between her palms, she glances up at the overcast sky once as if to confirm the lack of rain and then gazes coolly at him.

"Mr. Cassidy," she says as he gets out, his hands immediately pushing into his pockets when he sees her. It shouldn't be, she knows, but yes, it is kind of nice to see how anxious she makes him. How unnerved he is by her.

"Regina, hey," he mutters out, his chin slumped against his chest.

Her eyebrow lifts up and she waits for him to speak again. She could certainly just make this easier for him because she knows what he wants, but watching him squirm is simply too delicious and dammit, he deserves this for even existing, honestly. Perhaps unfair, but well...life is.

Finally, "Uh, is he…I mean Henry, is he ready?"

"He will be shortly. He wanted to get a present for his grandmother."

"Oh. So…he's not here right now?"

"No. He's with Emma. They went into town about three hours ago. I believe that they should be back shortly," Regina replies. She doesn't bother adding that they should have been back about an hour ago. She's quite certain that Emma has simply lost track of time because there's absolutely no way that she would have just allowed this meeting to occur unsupervised otherwise.

Not that Regina particularly minds; she's happy to have a few minutes alone with the man who will be tasked with caring for her son for the next three days. It'll be a good chance, she thinks, to impart upon him some wisdom.

Some much needed wisdom, she muses as she gazes evenly at him.

"Right, okay," he says with a quick nod. "Well, is he packed and ready to go otherwise? Because I can get everything in the car so that –"

"Actually, Mr. Cassidy," Regina starts, standing up and walking towards him in a way that is vaguely – and intentionally – predatory. "I was hoping that maybe we could talk for a moment." She punctuates her words with an overly large smile that is decidedly wicked; she can tell she's unnerving him.

"Yeah, sure," Neal reluctantly allows, looking like he'd far prefer to get mauled to death by a vicious untrained tiger instead. "What about?"

"What else but Henry?" she asks, her eyebrow up.

"Oh, I thought maybe you wanted to talk about Emma."

"Is there actually anything about Emma that we need to talk about? I was under the impression that your relationship with her was of the past."

"It is," he admits. He coughs, shuffles his feet anxiously for a few moments and then mumbles out, "It's just…well, I still care about her."

"And?" she demands, sounding more than a little bit impatient.

"And I don't want her hurt."

"I'm not sure I'm following your logic here, dear."

"There's something going on between you two," he says, his eyes finally lifting to meet hers. He looks nervous and apprehensive, but to his credit, he's trying to be strong here. "And that's not…that's not my business."

"Quite right; it's not."

"But what is my business is that she's not hurt."

"Because you've cornered the market on that?"

He nods his head. "That's fair," he allows. "I fucked her over."

"Yes, you did."

"But so did you."

"Yes, I did," she echoes. "Now is there a point to all of this?"

"The point is, Regina, don't hurt her. She's been through enough."

"I have no intention of harming her in any way," Regina assures him.

"Good. That's…that's good." Then, with a large somewhat rattling breath out, "So what about Henry? Is this where you tell me that if I so much as allow a cut on his knee, you'll rip my spleen out and feed it to the dogs?"

"I don't have a dog," Regina notes with entirely too much amusement. "Though I believe Emma does have a friend who could stand in as one."

"That's…awesome." His face contorts like he's disgusted; it's hilarious.

"Mm. But yes, dear, that's pretty much where I was going with this."

"Well you don't have to worry, Regina. You said you have no intention of harming Emma, well whether you choose to accept this or not, I promise you, I will not let anyone hurt Henry. I may be a fuck-up overall, but I'm going to do right by my kid. I want…I need to do right by him." He's looking right at her with so much urgency and frantic passion in his eyes.

His desperate words are enough to make her stand down because even though she can't stand this man and doesn't want him in her life, she understands him. Perhaps more than she might otherwise like to.

She sighs then. "Don't we all?"

"Yeah," he admits with a small smile.

It's right as he's saying this that Emma's car comes screeching up the drive, wheels rapidly spinning against still wet asphalt. She's barely parked before both she and Henry are out of the car, each of them wearing matching expressions of fear and worry. Like they think Regina and Neal might have come to blows while they'd been in town shopping for gifts for Snow White.

It'd be comical if it weren't so damned…actually no, it's still pretty comical.

"Relax, dears; he's still alive," Regina drawls, an eyebrow up and an overly amused smirk spread over her unpainted lips.

Emma exhales. "Right." Then, with a nervous smile, "Hey, I'm sorry about being late; we got wrapped up looking at some new things that had just been…you know what, that doesn't really matter right now does it? Is everything…is everything okay here?"

"Everything's fine," Regina says without waiting for Neal. "Mr. Cassidy and I were just coming to an understanding about this weekend."

"Mom," Henry sighs, but he doesn't actually look upset. Regina notices that he's holding a small box in his hands. Something for his grandmother surely.

"It's cool, Champ," Neal tells him with an easy smile. "We're cool."

"Indeed," Regina agrees. "Henry, why don't you get your bags?"

"Yeah, sure," he agrees, but not before glancing at everyone one last time just to ensure that no one is actually close to throwing a punch.

Once he's gone, Emma turns and asks, "So _is_ everything actually okay? I don't see any cuts or bruises or burn marks so…"

"As I said, everything is fine" Regina insists.

"Neal?"

"Yeah, we're good." He glances up at the sky. "But since another storm might be rolling in within a few hours, we should probably hit the road."

"You'll be careful, right?" Emma presses.

"I'll promise you the same thing I promised her," he replies. "Nothing is going hurt Henry. Not without going through me first and _nothing_ is getting through me." It's a strangely aggressive – and creative - promise to make, but for a man who was once a Lost Boy, it makes a weird kind of sense.

"He calls every night," Regina reminds him as she stands next to Emma so that they're side by side. It's not intentional, but it presents a united front.

A united front which is strong enough to make Neal chuckle in amusement.

"What?" Emma asks.

"Nothing. Hey, buddy," Neal deflects, grinning as Henry comes out with his night bag slung over his shoulder. "You ready to get going?"

"Yep," Henry says. Then he turns to his mothers and steps towards Regina first, his arms swinging out and rounding her. "Thank you," he whispers.

She closes her eyes and exhales because she knows that there's pretty much nothing she wouldn't do for him if it meant getting embraced like this.

He steps away after a moment, gives Emma a hard hug of her own and then says to both of them with a grin, "Remember: no killing each other."

"We got it, kid," Emma laughs. "Have fun. And say hi to everyone for us." She pointedly ignores the way Regina rolls her eyes at this because honestly, part of the reason she'd said the statement at all had been to annoy Regina; they might be friends – perhaps far more than that these days – but she still finds some amusement in irritating the former queen just for the hell of it.

Even if she knows that Regina will likely find a way to get even later.

Henry nods his understanding of her request and then follows Neal down the driveway (babbling to him all the way) and into the car. One last gleeful wave at his mothers, and then they're both watching as he disappears down the driveway with his birth father, a reality that makes neither of them terribly happy.

But it is reality and facing it is pretty much what they do these days.

"So," Emma says after a beat. "Are you going to tell me what really happened between you two?"

Regina smirks at this. "Do you want the truth?"

"That would be preferable."

"I threatened him over Henry's safety and he threatened me over your safety, and yes, I'm quite aware that you're not some kind of meat to be fought over. It was nothing like that, I assure you."

"Wait, rewind back to the point where…why were you threatening each other over me? And what do you mean by threat? Like your usual one or –"

"Nothing quite so dramatic, my dear. No explicit promises were made, anyway. As for you, well he asked me not to hurt you." She chuckles at this.

"Which is funny why?"

"Oh it's only funny in regards to how little he understands our dynamic."

"I'm not sure I understand either, apparently."

Regina smiles softly and then steps towards Emma, a soft hand sliding out and up to gently settle against the sheriff's cheek. "Since we began this new dance of ours, it has never been you that's been in danger from me."

"Do you really think that I'd hurt you?" Emma asks, her head tilted and her expression showing just how much the idea of this bothers her. "

"Not intentionally, no, but, well…it wouldn't take much." She slides her hand away, then, pushing it as well as its twin into her sweatshirt pocket.

"Right. Well you're wrong. That's the last thing I'd…ever want to do."

"And that, I believe," Regina assures her. Then, with that damnable smile that always comes out whenever she's trying to push back and hide strong emotion that is threatening to overtake her. "Are you ready for lunch?"

"A little bit, yeah" Emma agrees, a small frown creasing her face as she gazes with concern over at the suddenly somber looking former queen. "But just so you know, Regina, this conversation is far from over."

"I expected as much," Regina admits with a wry chuckle that seems far more sad than amused. She then turns sharply on her heel and rapidly walks into the house, the glass door swinging shut quietly behind her.

* * *

"I can't believe I'm saying this - and I'll deny it my grave if you repeat it - but I think that I'm actually getting used to those spinach salads of yours," Emma offers up as she quietly steps out onto the porch with two glasses in hand and a bottle of blood red wine tucked under her arm. She hands one to Regina – who is now wearing a gray sweatshirt that looks casually fantastic on her – and drops herself into the chair next to the former queen. "I might even...like them."

"Good," Regina chuckles before taking a sip. "Perhaps that will be the first step in getting you to not eat like a college student studying for finals."

"I'm surprised you even know what that's like."

"I do read, my dear," Regina reminds her with a smirk. After a moment, she gazes out at the water and says, "He sounded like he was happy."

"Henry, you mean?"

"Yes."

"Yeah," Emma agrees as she brings the wine up to her lips. Their son had called in about thirty minutes earlier, sounding excited and hyped up on sugar. He hadn't provided any details on his interactions, but his joy at being back in Storybrooke had been obvious to both of his mothers.

"It's getting about time to head back, isn't it?" Regina sighs. She sounds bothered by this, perhaps even sad. And she probably is considering just how much good has come out of her time here. Two months ago, the idea of wanting to stay here would have been absurd, but now, deep down, she finds herself a bit terrified at the idea of leaving.

Not that she plans to voice this fear.

Because it is absurd; Storybrooke _is_ home and as much as many of the people there hate her and always will, she finds that she misses the simplicity of the place. She finds that she misses her knowledge of it, and perhaps she even misses such ridiculous things as seeing Emma strut down the street with a badge affixed to her hip.

Emma shrugs her shoulders, the dramatic motion of it bringing Regina back to the sheriff. "Maybe, but I guess I don't see the rush."

"No? You don't think isolating him here is bad for him? Weren't you the one who once told me how lonely he was because of how separated from everyone he was?"

"This is different," Emma insists.

"Is it? Is it different because he's here with both of his mothers now?"

"Yes. No. Okay, I get your point. Kind of."

"He wants to be in the middle of things, Emma. You better than just about anyone knows that. Our curious boy likes to be part of that world."

"Yeah, okay, that's true, but considering that coming here was his idea, I doubt that he wants us to leave before it's right for either of us."

"Either of us?" Regina asks, her eyebrow up.

"The first night here, you asked me if I needed this therapy as much as you did, and well, I think by now it's clear what the answer to that is."

"Yes, which makes this…thing between us even more questionable."

"There doesn't have to be a thing," Emma tells her. "And that's actually the whole point, Regina; we don't have to do anything that we don't want to. If we want to just be friends, that's all we have to be and that's okay."

"Is it?"

"Yes."

"And if I want more?"

"Do you?"

Regina chuckles and takes another sip, this one longer.

"That's not an answer," Emma reminds her.

"You assume I have an answer."

"Okay, so you don't. And that's okay, too, because believe it or not, I'm as turned around about all of this as you are," Emma insists.

"Are you? Then what was the kiss at my door a few days ago about?"

"It felt like something I needed to do."

"Why?"

"Can you ask me an easier question?"

"I'm not sure I know any easier questions these days, my dear."

"Yeah, I hear that," Emma sighs. Another deep swig from the wine glass and then, "You know it's not like this is a natural thing for either of us."

"That it's us or…

"I meant relationships in general," Emma elaborates. "My longest lasting one was with Neal and yours was with…Graham, I guess?"

"In terms of years, yes, but I would say my most substantial and life altering relationship – if you could call it that - was with…" Regina shakes her head.

"My grandfather," Emma says, frowning a bit at the thought of this. She honestly tries not to spend too much time considering the weirdness of her family relations because they're not terribly relevant, but sometimes, she gets reminded of them in the strangest and most unsettling of ways.

"The King," Regina amends, her voice decidedly suddenly cold. Emma doesn't miss the way her shoulders and back have tensed and tightened. "If it's all the same to you, I'd prefer not to think of him as your grandfather."

"Why's that?"

"Because I hate the man with everything inside of me and I _don't_ hate you."

"Right, "Emma says, trying to ignore the surge emotion she feels at those words. Absurd because of course Regina no longer hates her considering the conversation they're having. "So is this where we talk about him now?"

"No," Regina replies stiffly, her fingers tightening around her wine glass.

"Because he's the last skeleton in your closet?"

"No, because he was a mean son of a bitch whom I'd prefer not to spend any time thinking about," Regina answers, her tone crisp and almost angry.

"Okay," Emma allows, one of her hands instinctually lifting up in a way that's meant to be placating. "So what story will you tell me tonight, then?"

Regina blinks. "What?"

"Well, if you don't want to talk about the King right now –"

"I'll never want to speak about the King, Emma," Regina corrects, her tone still cool. "So if you're expecting that to change, I wouldn't hold my breath."

"What if you need to for…for yourself?"

"You need to eat less sugar."

"Huh?"

"You need to eat less sugar for your own health. Doesn't mean you will."

"Okay, aside from the fact that those two things couldn't possible be more dissimilar, that's not exactly true," Emma challenges. "You've been forcing me over the last two months to be healthier and well, I have been. Like you said earlier, I'm starting to eat less and less like a college kid, right?"

"Fine," Regina sighs, sounding annoyed. "It was a bad comparison. Point is, I have no intention of speaking about the King so we can please move on?"

"Yeah, okay but since you don't want to talk about him, and I presume that you don't want to talk about your comment about me hurting you yet."

"I don't."

"Then you owe me a story in trade."

"All right," Regina agrees, sounding completely petulant in a way that amuses Emma far more than it probably should. "There once was an obnoxious little blonde girl," the former queen starts.

"Hey…"

"Who didn't know when to keep her nose out of things."

"That's neither nice nor fair," Emma pouts, the expression overly exaggerated just to garner a reaction from the former queen.

And it does. Regina sighs and finishes with, "And she ended up in the house of three bears."

"Wait, Goldilocks?"

"Who did you think I was speaking of, dear?" Regina counters with a wicked grin.

"Yeah, whatever. You know what? I'm going to cut you some slack tonight because it's our first night with Henry and we're both a little bit on edge."

"How very nice of you."

Emma ignores her and says, "So for now, we'll call it a night early."

"No more story time?"

"Nope," Emma agrees. "But tomorrow, you and me are going to do an all day trip into town and we're going to enjoy ourselves, just the two of us."

"That sounds suspiciously like a date, Sheriff? Are you asking me out?"

Emma shrugs her shoulders as if she's trying to downplay Regina's words as much as she can. "I'm not really one for dating."

"Nor am I. In fact, I don't know that I've ever actually been on one."

"Honestly, you're not missing much. It's a whole dance of people trying to pretend that they're someone other than who they are."

"Is that your way of saying you don't like dressing up?" Regina challenges.

"No, it's my way of saying that I hate pretending that I don't like to eat."

"So noted," Regina says. "So this isn't a date, then?"

"Nope. Which means we should have a good time."

"Indeed." Regina swallows the last of her wine. With that done, she stands up, and places the glass on the railing. "I suppose this is goodnight, then."

"Goodnight, Your Majesty."

Regina chuckles in response to the clearly affectionate term, and then starts back towards the house. After a few steps, she stops and turns back. "I meant to ask earlier, but what did Henry end up getting for your mother?"

"A glass star for her desk at school. He said it was to give her hope and help to remind her of the best parts of herself."

"Ah," Regina nods. "How…nice of him."

"Yeah, he's a sweet kid, Regina," Emma tells her, her tone absolutely serious. "Whatever else you believe or don't believe about yourself these days, believe that you did a great job with him because you did."

Regina smiles at that, remembering for a moment a time not long ago when what had been shared between the two of them about Henry had been accusations and blame and not at all kind words of support.

"Thank you," she says softly, just barely stopping herself from reaching out and again touching the Savior. It's become a bit of a compulsion lately – one they've both been fighting like crazy – and it's getting harder by the day.

Especially when she thinks about their non-date date that is coming up.

No, perhaps it's best not to think of that.

Emma nods her head slowly in response. "Sleep well," she says before reaching down for the bottle of wine. She lifts it to her lips and takes a swig from it while staring out at the water. Regina watches for a long moment, and then turns and allows the sheriff to have time alone with her thoughts.

Part of her – most of her – would like to stay out here with Emma and share the rest of the bottle with her. Especially since she has a pretty damned good idea about exactly what she'll be dreaming about – what nightmares she'll be having - tonight whether or not she wants to have them.

She knows what monsters – what specific monster – will be coming to visit her once she pulls the blankets up over her in bed. She knows that he'll be there, reaching out to touch her once she turns the lights out.

And so she thinks to stay and drink with Emma.

But then she knows that Emma will ask again and she'll push.

She'll want to know why this demon hurts more than any of the others.

Even more than her mother had.

She's not ready to talk about. She's not sure she ever will be – though she knows that Emma will continue asking and pressing – and so for now, she simply turns and walks away, keeping this particular monster to herself.

Even though she knows that he'll be coming for her tonight.

* * *

Unfortunately, she's not wrong.

The dream – no, it's definitely a nightmare - starts with her sitting quietly on the bed in the chambers that she'd stayed in while she'd been married to the King (after his death, she'd moved out of the room, had it redecorated from the bottom up and then never again stepped foot within it).

She's dressed in the simple light green dressing gown that Leopold had always desired her to wear during their couplings; something he could get off her with minimal effort. As she waits for him, she can feel an old terror burning within hot and dark her gut. A fear of what's about to come.

When he enters the room, he's drunk as usual. King George is visiting with his son James, and in celebration of their new non-aggression pact, Leopold and his guests had indulged themselves in alcohol almost to the point of madness. She can taste his breath from across the room and when he sloppily kisses her, she almost gags.

And then he's touching her and she's forcing her eyes closed and her mouth open, and it takes everything she has not to scream and beg him to stop.

There's no point in such; he won't stop no matter what sound she makes.

There's never been a point in trying to stop him from taking what's his.

She feels her back hit the mattress with a soft thud and then he's moving atop her and moments later, he's within her, breathing into her ear and calling her his wife, and telling her how good she feels in the very crudest and ugliest of ways. Perhaps he means his words to be some kind of terrible turn-on, but all they do is make her feel cheap and horrible. All they do is make her feel like she's being used.

This sex is not overly violent this time even though he's drunk, but it is painfully clumsy and deeply uncomfortable. He's demanding with his hands and his weight and he doesn't listen to the frantic gasping sounds that she makes as he crushes down on her; he doesn't even try to give her pleasure in return.

Not that she would want him to do that, anyway. What she wants is for him to go away.

What she wants is for none of this to be happening.

But that's not a possibility so instead; she closes her eyes and bears it.

When the tears leak down her face, he ignores them; they ruin the fantasy.

When she cries out in pain, he ignores that, too. Maybe he enjoys the sound of her hurting or maybe he just doesn't hear it. Most likely, he doesn't care.

This – she – is his right as the King and her desires are irrelevant.

When he's done, he stands and dresses, all the while talking about some request of Snow's. Something she wants to do with her stepmother.

Something that she will do with Snow because it's what's expected of her.

She keeps her eyes low and on her tightly clenched hands until he asks if she understands and then she lifts them up and quietly says, "Yes, my Lord."

He touches her face, his fingers rough against her soft skin. "You're a good Queen," he tells her in much the same way that a master would speak to his favorite dog. And then with a swirl and a satisfied grunt, he turns and leaves her, the door closing loudly behind him and a lock snapping into a place.

This is just a dream, she tells herself and even inside the dream, she knows this to be true because when she looks into the mirror, she doesn't see the eighteen year old girl with heartbroken eyes; she instead sees the fallen Queen, the woman who had destroyed worlds to find happiness.

The one who never has and likely never will find such.

As the memory sweeps over her, she turns over in her bed and weeps out her pain and hurt into her pillow, crying until she wakes up from the nightmare.

Not with a scream as she usually does but with a gasp.

It's a reaction that had been trained into her by the King.

He'd never wanted to know of her misery and he'd never allowed it to be known to others; as far as he'd been concerned, he'd given her everything she could ever want and pleasing him had simply been the cost of that. As far as he'd been concerned, silence had been part of honor and he'd expected both.

Now, sitting in her bed in the middle of the beach house, the last of the overnight storm dripping down against the roof, she finds that she no longer wants to hide this pain away. She doesn't particularly wish to speak of it to anyone, but for once, she doesn't want to be alone with it, either.

* * *

As expected, she finds sleeping Emma on the couch, the TV on. There's something else besides _I Love Lucy_ playing now, but Regina pays it no mind.

"May I?" she asks in a soft voice when she sees Emma's sleepy green eyes looking up at her. There's a strange kind of understanding there, like Emma knows exactly why she's here and what she needs. She probably does.

Emma's response is to lift the blanket up. She then pushes herself towards the back of the couch, allowing Regina room to curl in front of her.

She opens her mouth, then, to say something – perhaps to try to lighten the mood of the moment up with a joking promise that she'll attempt not to molest Regina in her sleep – but the words abruptly die on her lips when she sees the dried tear tracks on the former queen's face.

And somehow, she just knows that this isn't a moment for humor.

Once Regina has settled her smaller body in front of her, the sheriff pulls the blanket over them and then tries to slide even further back against the couch so as to give Regina whatever space she might want.

But then, in a soft voice that's shaking far too much for Emma's liking, Regina says,, "It's okay. You can…you can, I mean." She swallows hard, biting down against her pride and her fear and instead for once allowing for the need she has for human comfort to come forward.

Right now, what she needs – what she wants – is to be held.

And, of course, again, Emma just understands.

Without another word, the sheriff slides her body forward once more on the couch and then presses her arms back around Regina's slim waist and pulls her close, the hold gentle and loose but somehow still strong. "Is this all right?" she asks.

"Yes," Regina replies, sliding her hands over Emma's.

"Good," Emma tells her, her voice husky with sleep."It's okay," she adds after a moment.

"I know," Regina replies. She takes a breath - a deep chest rattling one that Emma feels - and then relaxes her body into the sheriff's hold, allowing herself to enjoy the safety and security - the peace - of Emma's arms.

And then she sleeps.

**TBC...**

* * *

**For anyone interested in story updates and constant LP/JMo reblogs, I can be found at sgtmac7 on Tumblr.  
**


End file.
